


Now We're Roommates

by Aurelious_auria



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Cayde-6 Being Cayde-6 (Destiny), Chickens, Conflict, Conflict Resolution, Domestic Fluff, Embarrassment, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, IDK why that tag exists in the list, Other, Post-Red War, Reader is a Guardian (Destiny), Roommates, Slow Burn, Swearing, The Last City, but damn if it's not relevant, headcanons, house arrest, so more added later, still not great at tagging fics, you fuck up, you pay the price
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-08-05 16:48:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16371383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurelious_auria/pseuds/Aurelious_auria
Summary: Being a Guardian means helping people, even if it means giving them the means to help themselves. Or so you thought. Turns out supplying weapons to drifting refugees isn't exactly the best way to go about fulfilling the "guarding" portion of your Guardianship, and your Vanguard isn't about to let you off the hook without punishment-- you're going under house arrest.In his house. As his roommate.What kind of trouble have you landed yourself in?





	1. Dead-Ender

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the goddamn fic this fandom needs!  
> I wouldn't be Destiny insert writer if I didn't write something for Cayde every now and again. Here is one of many ideas I have planned-- I hope you end up liking it! First few chapters will be a bit angsty, after all. ^^;
> 
> This takes place after the Red War, in case you were wondering about that!

Being a Guardian tops as one of the more thankless jobs the universe has to offer, but at least among your own species, the reputation is good. Since your kind rose up out of the ashes, you and your fellows in arms have established yourselves as a guiding force for humanity; you’re the heroes they desperately need… and the heroes they deserve. Even on occasions when Guardians have broken the law, more often than not it had been done in service to the common good, and the value of life itself.

 

This is what you continue to remind yourself, as you make your way towards the Vanguard’s private hangar bay-- ignoring every sign in your path marking it a restricted area-- to use stolen key codes and grant yourself access. Traveler above, the kinds of trouble you’re getting into right now.

 

Thankfully, you don’t have to worry about that trouble evolving into the kinds that come with consequences and legal action, for a few reasons:

 

One, the Vanguard use their ships about as often as they use their legs. Strategizing defenses, evaluating field intel, and coordinating strikes alongside all the _other_ critical roles the Guardian outfitters must play calls for very little actual fieldwork. Thus, their ships lay woefully underutilized, in a hangar bay that all six of their eyes hardly even glance over on a day-to-day basis.

 

Two, the resulting minimal staffing makes slipping in to snatch a few access codes a quick and painless endeavor; turning your current nighttime foray into little more than a walk in the park. It’s been six trips out beyond the walls by now, using your current strategy. And if it ain't broke, don’t fix it… right?

 

Rare outside lights glance in over the indistinct forms of spaceships as you pass them, your footsteps landing quick and light on the concrete floor as you progress. The bay looks about the same as it always does this time of the day and week, but something feels... off.

 

Tonight, your instincts are ringing like alarm bells in your ears about threats you can't confirm; and while it’s usually pertinent of you as a Guardian to heed those warnings, you make yourself feel safer just by melting into the shadows that smother much of the open space inside the wing. As much as you’d like to listen to the little voice of reason in your head pleading for you to turn back, to come back another day, you persevere.

 

There are people out there, beyond the City gates, who need you right now. People who are _relying_ on you to keep them safe, and you can’t let them down. It’s your duty as a Guardian… even if the powers that be don’t exactly agree with your current course of action.

 

_It’s what has to be done._

 

The internal confirmation hastens you onwards towards your goal; a tightly-sealed steel bulkhead illuminated by a loose circle of light, the product of a meager exit sign stationed overhead. You slip into its sleepy glow and reach for the small, wall-mounted square that serves as the portal’s keypad, your nerves electric with apprehension.

 

Shakily, you punch in the correct sequence, and then freeze… moments before something sharp plunges into your hand, pinning it to the number pad.

 

You gasp and cry out, grabbing your arm as pain shoots up through your body. Frantically, your eyes latch on to the source of the puncture, identifying a knife… the preferred tool of the Hunter class. That’s when it hits you.

 

_I’ve been discovered!_

 

Your fears are fully realized. Immediately, a thousand and one regrets begin to line up and personally file complaints to the logic and reasoning center of your brain, flitting through each of their arguments in panicked frenzy.

 

_You should have listened! You should have waited, you should have had a backup plan, you should have, you should have..._

 

As all of these thoughts are making themselves known; your opposite hand relinquishes its involuntary grip on your bicep and extends to, at the _very_ least, rid your impaled hand of the knife. Your ghost materializes by your side to provide assistance, glancing around nervously in search of the threat, before focusing his gaze on your skewered palm.

 

You’re about to grasp the handle, when a voice sounds from the shadows behind you. “Nah-ah ah, leave that where it is Guardian. That is, unless, you want the next one in the back of your head. Your choice.”

 

Your hand hurts _horribly_. The muscles and tendons connecting your fingers spasm painfully against the blade… but you obey. Mentally blocking out the harsh throbbing as best you can, you replay the sound of the voice in your head, trying to match it to a name.

 

They sound familiar… _angry,_ but familiar. Perhaps this isn’t so hopeless after all; if they’re someone you know, then there’s a chance you could still work this situation to your benefit. Turning your head to look out over your shoulder, you try to catch a glimpse of your offender, justifications on your lips.

 

“Hey, I know what this must look like--”

 

“What, sneaking out through a restricted area _against orders_ in the dead of night, with stolen key codes? If you were looking for a midnight snack, I hate to be the one to break it to you but this isn’t your kitchen, and that’s not a refrigerator.”

 

_Oh no. Is that who I think it is?_

 

A feeling of dismay twists your stomach. The same part of you that had lectured you about your coming here is telling you that _it could be him_ , while all of the other parts of you really, _really_ don't want to believe it could be true. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you catch a glimmer of light.

 

It's striking and electronic, like the glow of a pilot’s dashboard, and blue-white at the centers. Both centers. As in two bright, burning centers belonging to two bright, _burning_ eyes staring back at you like they could turn you into _ash,_ all beneath a Hunter’s hooded cloak.

 

_Oh, sugar honey iced tea… it's Cayde-6!_

 

Suddenly, it isn't such a mystery that you weren't initially able to distinguish his voice… how many times had you heard him use it in _anger?_ Despite the diction and word choice remaining unchanged, his tone was drained of all of its usual easygoing spunk; leaving him sounding too serious for what really suits him. It echoes an unnatural and unsettling rage that is as rare in him as hairs on the head of a Legionary.

 

A cold sensation of dread, frigid enough to momentarily numb the pain in your hand creeps up through your limbs. There’s no avoiding it now, you are utterly, inexplicably and irrevocably…

  
“Ruse is up, buttercup! _You’re_ **_screwed_** _.”_


	2. Wrong Side of Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, maybe you should have listened to your gut. But it's not too late to talk yourself out of this, right?  
> Wrong.

“Cayde! Cayde-6, sir. Vanguard Cayde-6, sir, I-”

  
“Alright, I’m gonna stop you right there, before you tie your entire tongue in a knot trying to talk your way out of this, Guardian. Because-- _whoo_ \-- nothing, and I mean absolutely _nothing_ is going to save you now.”

 

It’s only been about a minute since your Vanguard caught you red-handed, (literally!) on your way out the door. But to you, it’s been an eternity just staring into those glowing… _glowering_ eyes. Orange lights flicker inside his mouth with every word Cayde speaks; and you subconsciously make the comparison to a dragon’s flaming maw.

 

So you do as you’re told, and keep your mouth shut. Honestly, you aren’t sure what to do in this sort of a situation anyway, so why make it worse? In all of your fear-inspired fantasies involving your discovery on one of these nights, you had never expected to come face-to-faceplate with a _Vanguard_. A janitor? Maybe! An after-hours hangar worker? Maybe! But Cayde-6-- and an abnormally _furious_ Cayde-6 at that-- has never even come _close_ to the top of your list.

 

_This can’t be a coincidence._

 

He takes two steps into the looming light, and you behold the figure of an exo, who through all the rigidly held plates in his face and hardened look in his optics, looks _thoroughly_ disappointed in you. He doesn’t pause long to stare you down, choosing instead to make the rest of his way forward toward you to pry the knife out of your outstretched hand himself.

 

It comes free, and is quickly replaced-- with a merry jingle and a _clack--_ by a the first link on a pair of handcuffs. Drops of blood litter the floor generously from your fresh cut, and Ghost glides forward to repair the damage; dodging Cayde as he whirls you around to secure the second cuff… his silence is nearly as painful as the stabbing itself.

 

As soon as the second ring snaps in place, your reality shatters around you, and you’re forced to conclude that it’s _really happening_. You’re _actually_ being arrested. It’s over now… and there’s nothing you can do about it.

 

Your whole body convulses internally from an onslaught of guilt, hopelessness, and residual astonishment; while your brain asks itself the same question over and over again, unable to accept your fate without first knowing the reason _why_. Before you even realize it, the question leaves your mouth.

 

“How did you--”

 

“Hangar bay access alerts. Every door, window, vent shaft and shower drain in this building is measured and monitored like clockwork. _Somebody’s_ got to review that data.” Your captor grumbles, testing the restraints.

 

_“You?”_

  
“Of course not. But I’m the one who has to find out, eventually, and do something about it. And out of everyone! Really, I did _not_ expect to be doing something about a _Guardian._ One of our own, taking off into the night like a bandit to deliver weapons to drifters and city-limiters like some sort of black market supply runner it just, it just blows my _mind!”_ Cayde’s annoyance begins to simmer out into his tone while he vents his way through the exposition, his volume steadily rising. He punctuates his astonishment by yanking your injured hand’s cuff adjustment to a nearly unbearable tightness, causing you to jump a little when the ensuing pain stiffens your arm.

 

“I just have to wonder what exactly was going through your head that you thought all of this would be a good idea, and who exactly put you up to this because I would _really_ love to know. No really--” Cayde halts mid-sentence to take you by the shoulder; and in a series of swiftly executed movements he whips you around to face him, holding you up against the wall with a tight grip on the upper halves of both your arms.

 

His face is just inches from yours; and you find yourself at the mercy of that same ruthless stare, piercing into you like lightning and ice and the burning heart of a flame all at once, through two radiant irises. _“Tell me.”_

 

You think your heart might have given out on you at some point there, if the paralyzing chill seeping into your veins is any indication. It’s difficult getting enough blood moving through your cranium to crank out thoughts, but you manage to come to one realization: that this is the moment when you decide what matters more to you, your identity and freedoms as a Guardian, or the people you’ve dedicated your lives to protecting. But even as you go over the two options in your head, you’ve already made your choice. Swallowing your inhibitions, you look the exo squarely in his terrifying, angry demon eyes.

 

“No one. I did this.”

 

“I know.”

 

You balk. “...Come again?”

 

“I know you were acting on your own.” Cayde finishes, his words leaving his mouth in a drawn out sigh, tone back to that ill-fitting seriousness. His head drops in weary resolve, forcing his scrutiny away from your face to stare at the ground at your feet. The way it nods as all of the tension springs out of it is almost comical.

 

With the growing need to explain yourself presenting itself like a bright red, blinking panic button in the back of your mind, you decide to at least attempt establishing a base of understanding between yourself and the exo… but he speaks up again, before you can form your first defense.

 

“Your field reports have you pegged for a real knight in shining armor, Guardian. More time out in the wilds, outlying cities, and all the spaces in between than most operatives average out in a week. And doing what? Aiding in the ‘protection, rehabilitation, and relocation of unestablished civilians.’” He reports evenly, tiredly.

 

“…I’ve seen your type, I’ve seen your type over and over again, all open hearts and helping hands to those who can’t afford to help themselves. Soldiers like you, they're the real essence of what it means to fight for the people. Not a single soul left behind when you're around. Real Guardian angels.” He describes, his commentary revealing a subtle and surprising reverence toward your actions.

 

Your mouth separates a little, wanting to form words while unsure of which ones to use anymore. You're saved the effort.

 

“And that's why you're the worst possible candidate for the job!” Cayde declares, and pushing off your shoulders, he crosses his arms in front of him with a kind of self-assured arrogance that normally wouldn’t have taken you off-guard, if it hadn’t followed praise. Your loosened mouth drops to the whole jaw. _“What?”_

 

Evidently, he had expected this reaction, nodding in quiet confirmation as you gawp.

 

“Listen here, Guardian-- imagine with me. If you go running around a burning forest dousing each tree, bush and dandelion that happens to cross your line of sight with every bucket of water you’re handed, is that going to stop the wildfire?” He quizzes. However, you’ve already elected not to indulge him in his metaphor, and go on the offensive. You take a step forward from the wall, face set with anger.

 

“Sir, you're talking about lives! Human lives are not comparable to-- to _plants_ \-- those people out there, they have communities and famil--”

 

“What, you don't think all the burning oak trees care about their little acorns, too?”

 

The look you give him for his off-handed quip is, in a word, paralyzing. The change in the brightness setting of his optical lenses tells you that he realizes he might have stepped over a line on that one.

 

“Right. Look. What I'm trying to say here is that when Guardians operate on their own, trying to make a difference in a dangerous world much bigger and scarier than them, their efforts get wasted, and eventually their Light burns out like a match in a mud puddle. Poof.” He emphasizes, spreading fingers outward from their fists in an attempt to manually simulate an explosion.

 

“It's just _too much_ for one person to handle, and that's why we have the Vanguard. The Consensus. The City.” He explains, talking carefully, his tone striking on consonants for a patronizing effect.

 

“I get that you want to help everyone. You’ve got an angel on your right and left shoulders at all times of the day and night, telling you it’s your duty to do this and that to _here_ and _there_ and **_everywhere_** , and that's how you ended up justifying this gun-dealing nonsense in the first place.” Cayde growls, the disappointed look returning in earnest.

 

“But I can tell you for a fact _right now_ , that whatever help you think you’re providing by arming impoverished outsiders doesn’t save lives nearly as much as you think it does. It really only endangers them _more.”_ The exo intimates, untucking his hands from their spots inside his elbows to gesture as he elaborates.

 

“Here, I’ll even tell you why: when you give someone a gun, they think they can take on the world, and when they die trying, it's too late to remind them that there's other ways out of hell than guns blazing. There are aliens out there, legions and legions of dangerous, heavily armed, and _ugly-looking_ aliens out there that kill humans with guns just as easily as humans without them.” A hand points at the door emphatically, accusingly.

 

“Only with the second case, they have a better chance at running and living to see another day if they aren’t shooting.” The Vanguard points out, while literally pointing out the differences in mindsets using both hands to indicate imaginary situations on either side of him.

 

“Think about it-- If _Guardians,_ the most powerful and recognized destructive force in the Solar System have a hard enough time surviving out there in the world doing what we do-- shooting baddies-- what makes you think civilians would do any better. Hm?” Cayde reasons, the bright lights of his eyes lasering in on you expectantly.

 

A hint of guilt, born of uncertainty, finds you after listening to him speak. You visibly frown and shift uncomfortably, but refuse to take your eyes off of your captor’s face. His point is a valid one, but still, this isn’t something you haven’t thought about before.

 

 _Of course_ immortals have a lot more to offer as soldiers and peacekeepers, and are logically placed as such among those living mortal lives. But that doesn’t solve the problem of where those same people would be without the protection of yourself, and those like you.

 

“And what would you have me do, leave them out there to suffer and die unprotected when there are no Guardians around to protect them? If we can’t save them all, sir, then isn’t it our duty to help them save _themselves?”_

 

“Aaaaand there it is! Bingo.” He takes a step back, giving you a good look at his sarcastic smile while he brings up both hands to shoot at you with equally sarcastic finger guns.

 

You pause, and then blink a few times to confirm, not expecting that response. Angling your head to regard him in confusion, you demand he elaborate through a glance; and being as uninhibited when barely provoked as he is, Cayde-6 obliges.

 

“What’s with the look? Is it seriously not obvious enough, or have I been doing my job wrong this whole time? I’d understand if that were the case, but still, I feel like maybe the solution is staring you right in the face, every time you look out a _window.”_ The hooded exo impresses, ridicule saturating his voice, expression, and movements.

 

“Have you forgotten there’s a whole big City here, with great big _safe_ walls around it built for people _just like_ the ones you’re giving guns to, so that instead of having to _use_ those guns to fend for their lives in the wild, they can maybe… live normal, comfortable human lives?” Cayde leans in again, the shadow of his hood slipping over his leering eyelights.

 

“Because _really_ … that’s hard to forget, considering you live and work here, and lapel down its walls every fortnight to play Robin Hood with the wanderers.”

 

As the man lectures his voice takes on a biting tone, feet meeting your advance with a few more steps of his own, while the lights in and around his face flash like gunfire with every word.

 

But you haven’t lost your fight yet. You think of all the settlements outside the walls struggling without protection; needing to get in but suffering without the space available in the refugee centers and holdouts to support them. Guardians spread thin trying to offer resistance wherever it can be found, on past the Twilight Gap, where the ferocity of otherworldly invaders rears its ugly head.

 

“But it’s not enough. The City isn’t doing enough to help.” You growl, gritting your teeth, angry and frustrated that he isn’t seeing the holes in his logic. Isn’t he a Vanguard? Hasn’t he seen the strife these people have been charged with enduring?

  
Cayde-6 takes hold of your shoulders this time, gripping them tightly, _adamantly_ , needing you to hear and understand the meaning of his words as he speaks them.

 

“Then do more. _Be_ more. _Be the change,_ Guardian.”

 

His eyes lower after that, and dim. Just a little-- enough to make him look far more exhausted than you’re used to seeing him. It isn’t a good look. “Because I can’t change the way the world works by myself. I need Guardians I can rely on, Guardians I can trust to bring humanity back home.”

 

Cayde mumbles tiredly, and the counter-argument you have ready to go evaporates on your lips. Of course your assignments have their importance, their purpose. Of course each of you do your part in protecting the City; whether it’s from its walls or beyond Earth’s orbit. And of course he needs you there protecting the unprotected civilian in his stead.

 

You’re a Guardian. And he needs more like you.

 

You sigh, unsatisfied with the conclusion of the argument, knowing that despite your wrongdoing, another group of humans would go undefended in this night’s debacle. In front of you, Cayde-6 relaxes, sensing that he’s gotten something through to you; and you meet his eyes with barely withheld worry. “The refugees I had planned to deliver to tonight. They’re waiting for me.”

 

“Ghost, pass those coordinates off to Sundance and I’ll have a fireteam at their location ASAP.” Cayde interrupts, reading your mind, to which your Ghost supplies a shaky “Y-yes sir” and promptly relays the information.

 

“Now what?” You push, anxious to know what punishment awaits your crime, then quickly add a “Sir.” To the end, sensing his anger hasn’t fully diminished yet.

 

“Now what? Now you face your fuck-up, hotshot. And since you’re one of my flock, I get to decide what kind of trouble you’re in.” He explains, sounding almost joyful about it.

 

_How sadistic._

 

“Going by Vanguard policy-- which I had to brush up on because of today, so thank you for that-- I can put you under house arrest. But!” A gloved hand pointing towards the ceiling. “It gets tricky when you’re putting a Guardian who kicks it in the City commons in the time-out chair, so I have a better idea.”

 

There’s a twinkle in his eye, the kind you’re used to seeing. You aren’t sure if that’s a good or a bad thing at this particular moment.

 

“Three months under house arrest with yours truly, a la casa de Cayde-6.” Taking in the sight of your widening, panicked eyes, the Gunslinger’s eyelights brighten immeasurably in delight.

 

“Better get packing, roomie! You’re at my digs in 0100, or I’m knocking down your front door to take you there myself.” Grinning he summons his ghost, and begins to transmat. It’s only then, that you remember.

 

“Wait, Cayde! The handcuffs!” You blurt out, holding the metal wristbands up in front of your face.

 

_No, he wouldn’t, would he?_

 

“Too late for that, Hunter!” He calls out, already disintegrating into glowing particles of Light.

 

_He would!_

 

“Look at it this way: you deserve it for disrupting my evening in, I missed a whole episode of Dead Men Walking for this, okay? Bye see you soon!” He speaks in one cheerful, uninterrupted sentence, smashing the last few words together to make sure he has time to say them before disappearing altogether.

 

The last you see of him is an evaporating finger gun pointing in your direction, before you’re left alone in the Vanguard private hangar to collect your thoughts. And yet, the only one your brain can manage to muster is an exhausted, exasperated, all-encompassing…

  
“Well _shit_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter right away (because I had most of it finished anyways). Wink wonk. This will probably end up being the longest one for a while, so I hope you liked it!


	3. Traitor's Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chin up, Guardian! Being under house arrest couldn't be too bad... right? Even with all the rumors circulating about your new housemate?

“Anything from the fridge?”

 

“Yeah, anything with an expiration date. Throw the butter, though.”

 

"Alright, the pantry?”

  
  
“Same thing.”

 

“Okay…” Your Ghost flits about, somehow getting the ordeal of packing accomplished with a severe lack of hands available from both parties to accomplish the feat with. You, meanwhile, are sitting on the arm of your couch feeling like a bump on a log, hands still firmly held by the manacles behind your back as you gave instructions.

 

You were sure the red marks would show for days.

 

“What about the plants?” Your companion speaks up again, his singular, bright blue light finding your face from over the sink, where a pair of african violets flourish in quiet serenity from their own little corner of the world. Plants like them were so common in bygone eras; but now, even the two that you own are rare enough to be considered treasures.

 

You pictured the pair situated on a windowsill in Cayde-6’s house, and physically cringe. “Leave them with someone from the fireteam.” You command, shaking away the image.

 

Hunters have rumors about what the notorious exo’s home might look like, few of them positive. Some say that two of the walls to the kitchen had been blasted open from a cooking accident, citing that as his reason for his more characteristic takeout orders.

 

You’ve also heard that he’d ripped the floor out of one of his basement rooms to dig a tunnel out of the City through the dirt beneath it. That he held cult meetings in his attic on moonless nights, practicing hive rituals on unassuming vegetables. That there was hidden treasure buried somewhere in his backyard…

 

All ridiculous. Well, except for maybe the first one.

 

Still, the whispers and conversations you’d heard in jest regarding the Vanguard inspire little faith in the reality of his-- and now your-- situation, certain now that you’ll arrive on his doorstep finding it in some state of disrepair.

 

Didn’t he keep a chicken around somewhere, too?

 

“All finished!” Your Ghost puffs, and you wonder briefly how he managed to make himself sound breathless.

 

“Great.” You answer, and your lack of enthusiasm must have shown through your voice, because Ghost is at your side in moments.

 

“Hey, I know we got caught, but this isn’t the end. We can still make a difference.” He encourages, twirling in front of your face to draw your attention.

 

“Maybe not by… arming civilians this time… but the City needs our help. We can make it better. We always do.” He chirps, voice certain from determination. Yet, as sweet and supportive as his intentions are, that isn’t what you’re worried about at the moment.

 

“Not from Cayde’s living room, we can’t.” You grumble, brushing your Ghost away to stand up, and making your way over to the kitchenette, you stop to stare out the small window over the sink. “And we’re only one Guardian, and one Ghost. We still can only do so much.”

 

“Cayde can help.” The little light pipes up, following you over to the pane. You can see the outline of the peculiar symbol denoting his eye reflecting in the greasy, steam-tempered glass. “We can use this opportunity to win over his trust! Make him listen to our ideas, see what _we_ think should change.”

 

You nod slowly, beginning to smile as your eyes make contact with the only other one shining in the reflected glass. Ghost was right-- you should see this as an opportunity, a chance to prove yourself and the worth of your ideals. You just had to get on Cayde’s good side again-- and you knew just how you were going to do it.

 

“I’m going to be the best roommate this world’s ever seen.” You declare, spurred by a sudden boost of confidence.

 

“I’m going to be so good, that when I leave in three months, he won’t be able to live without me.” You continue, lifting your chin to grin into the glossy mirror before you, a look of powerful self-assurance locked in your irises. Beside you, your Ghost whirls excitedly, caught up in the moment.

 

“Are you ready to go?” He asserts, and you nod, keeping the look on your face until the moment it lays eyes on the front door of Cayde-6’s home, still burning from the brightness of transmaterialization. You blink a few times to refocus.

 

It’s oak, and looks to be of quality, though it’s difficult to tell with so little light illuminating his doorstep.

 

_Does he ever change the lights around here?_

 

Blessedly, Ghost rings the doorbell for you, and you wait. A minute passes.

Ghost rings again.

And again.

 

“What could be taking him so long?” He mutters, going in for a fourth ring, when the door suddenly flies open, screaming on its hinges, to reveal a disheveled looking Cayde-6; hood askew, eyelights flickering and glitching as they attempt to meet yours.

 

You realize with horror as you focus in on his face that something red and liquidy is seeping out from beneath his eye sockets, gleaming in the low light behind him and through the cracks separating his faceplates. You watch, transfixed, as it dribbles down his chin, revealing a dark stain covering the front of his armor, the leather there saturated with something unnatural and foul-smelling.

 

“Guardian.” He wheezes, hanging off the door handle, his feet nearly giving out beneath him.

 

“Help?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so encouraged by the positive feedback that I just went and wrote another right away ! ;;v;;  
> I'm on such a roll, I may end up posting another tonight, too, haha. Hope you enjoyed!


	4. The Fool's Remedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cayde's in trouble, and his Ghost is down for the count. No time to think! Get in there!

“ _Cayde!_ ”

 

You cry out in shock, and alarmed into action; you lunge forward to support him, only to once again realize the unfortunate sulituation your hands are currently in. He must have realized this, however, as shortly after he raises his his free hand to present a small, squarish key for your Ghost to take and use on the cuffs.

 

The restraining wear clicks open, liberating your sore and abused wrists, but you spend little time admiring this change. In one swift movement, you slide a shoulder under his unoccupied arm to hoist him back up to his feet; and looking around frantically for some sort of seat, your eyes land on a sofa only a few paces away. Guiding him over to sit on the cushions, your brain scrambles for some logical course of action; fully aware of your lack of medical expertise, as well as being generally mystified by exo biology.

 

“What happened?! Where’s your Ghost?” You fumble, hands going to his face to clear some of the rank fluid from his eyes. You surprise yourself with the boldness of your own panicked actions, but it’s too late now, you’re committed to your course. You bring up the edge of your cloak to dab around his eyelids (or were they really eyelids?), but the redness only continues to burble out of the crevices and down his face, and you're pretty sure whatever this stuff is surrounding his eyes is blinding him.

 

“In the kitchen, laughing her ass off.” He grumbles, voice hoarse.

 

_Wait-- laughing? At this??_

 

“Ah-- ah! Watch it!” He winces, and you bring your cloak away from his open eye-lense, grimacing in embarrassment. “Sorry!” You squeak out, pulling away to search for the aforementioned kitchen, so you could at least wet down your cloak to better wipe away the slime with.

 

“Ghost, help him please?” You plead, and rise to your feet, locating the sound of tinny laughter down the hall to your right, and make a dash for it-- skidding through the doorframe from carpet onto smooth, tile flooring. Now, the first thing your eyes land on are the numerous, even lines of pearly-white ceramic squares under your feet colored with a smear of the most ugly and rancid looking puddle of what could only be…

 

_Hot sauce?!_

 

You stride over to the mess-- careful not to step and slip in it-- your sight trailing over the extent of the carnage to where it ended with a nearly empty bottle-shaped container. By the looks of it, the container had been dropped straight down, steamrolling the juices halfway across the kitchen before finally coming to a halt at where your feet now stood. Gingerly, using your cloak as a barrier between you and the reddened object, you pluck it still dripping from the ground, trying to ignore the laughter emanating from somewhere beside you while you scan over the label.

 

Colonel Firebrand’s Flamin’ Hot Sriracha.

_Use by… exactly six years and a month ago._

 

You drop the bottle with a hollow _clack_ , sour look on your face, ready to rid your fingers of the expired sauce at the nearest possible sink. Thankfully, there's one right across from where you stand, and you rush over to it to disinfect your hands with the hottest water you can convince it to produce. It’s only then that the presiding Ghost finally quiets herself down enough to use words again, choosing to address you instead of return to her Guardian's side.

 

“Hooo… hah… hoo… is he alright out there? Is he still flailing around like a lunatic?”

 

She asks you randomly, laughter still in her voice. You glance over your shoulder from the kitchen basin to examine Cayde-6’s Ghost; Sundance, who despite various flecks of discolored red speckling her white-fringed shell, looks thoroughly entertained.

 

“He’s blinded. That stuff got everywhere.” You explain, trying not to let the of picture his grimy face appearing at the front door mere minutes earlier resurface in your mind.

 

“You should have been there! It just… exploded! _In his face!_ ” She disregards with a chuckle, her mirth renewed at the memory.

 

Oh.

_So that’s what happened._

 

“Here, come here! Look at this!” The little drone beckons, projecting a rectangular video screen before the two of you, over which a recording began to play. Tempted, you turn around fully, creeping closer to take a look.

 

_He plucks the bottle out of the pantry, looking it over. “Think this is still good?” He asks open-endedly, closely examining its lid. Instead of waiting for a reply, he pops the cap off to find out for himself-- and that’s when it blasts all of its contents directly into his unprotected face, like the world’s grossest bottle rocket._

 

The viewscreen shakes as Sundance begins laughing anew, and you find yourself grinning at the sight of the senior Hunter getting the mentos and cola treatment from an expired condiment. But just as the first giggle finds its way up to your lips, you hear a familiar, yet still-scratchy voice by the doorframe.

 

“Agh-- gh! Hnng. _Sundance!_ ” Cayde shouts indignantly, the frustration in his eyes somewhat tempered by the… excessive sauce.

Well, at least he could see now!

 

“In front my Hunter? _Really?!_ I have one rule. One rule!”

 

The Ghost snorts. “I can’t embarrass you, you already do such a good job of it yourself!” She ribs between snickers, and you begin realize that this is just how it is between them. With Cayde being as infamously reckless as he is, you thought that his Ghost might at the _very_ least play some sort of counterbalance.

 

Looks like you were wrong about a few things tonight.

 

He looks like he’s about to open his mouth and make another flustered statement; but in all honestly, you can hardly bear the look of the sriracha leaking out of his whole face anymore-- so you speak up first.

 

“Urrgh. Cayde, just… come over here, please.” You demand, forgetting who you’re talking to for a second.

 

“Sir.” There, that was better.

 

You turn to retrieve a sponge from beside the sink and load it with soap, tearing off a paper towel from a nearby roll for good measure; and Cayde, really looking for anything to take the focus off his most recent blunder, obliges happily.

 

You turn to face him, the side of your mouth pulling thoughtfully into one of your cheeks as you try to decide how best to go about returning his face to its former vivid teal, and now realize just how much taller he is than you.

 

“What, don’t like my new eyeliner?” He jokes, batting-- or flashing, as it seemed to be with exos-- his fuzzy, gore-encrusted eyes.

 

“Sit down.” You grumble, rolling your eyes.

 

“Yes ma’am.”

 

Pulling out a stool out from underneath the adjoining countertop, he helps himself up, and while he’s still too tall to reach his faceplate comfortably from the seat beside him, the counter itself makes for a good enough perch. You clamber up, and scooch close enough to make out the already crystallizing goo gunking up the overlapping plates, involuntarily making a face.

 

_Yuck._

 

“Damn. Knew red wasn’t my color.” The Gunslinger bemoans, watching your reaction.

 

“Hush. I’m trying to make you presentable.” Moving in with the sponge to lift the color from the cheek-plating beneath his eyes, you chide him in hopes it would keep his mouth shut while you work. No such luck.

 

“Hey-- hey! Watch the contour!” He warns playfully, to which you tsk impatiently. Now was not the time. This work required focus. Patience. A steady hand.

 

“Keep still!” You hiss, swiping harshly over his brow a few times, with a paper towel follow-up. "You know, I thought you were seriously hurt for a moment there. You could treat this a _little_ more seriously."

 

“But that was my blush!”  
  
“You have no cheeks!”

 

“Hey, a man can _dream_ , Guardian.” He rebukes, crossing his arms.

 

Traveler above, he could get so into his act sometimes, couldn’t he? Regardless, you can’t keep a smile from spreading over your face, regardless of his blatant disregard for your concern, happy to learn that as “Cayde” as he was in public, none of it was ever for show. He was just a goofball, through and through.

 

You work around his horn, then the other half of his face, enduring his hand-disrupting commentary while the Ghosts did away with the mess coating the kitchen floor; finally getting to his eyes as they finished up minutes later.

 

“ _Sss_ , ahh! Careful, careful careful…” The Vanguard pleads, trying not to squint as you tease out the remaining flakes as gently as you can.

 

“I’m doing my best, Cayde! There’s so much imbedded in your skull right now, it’s probably flavoring your brain right now.”

 

That was a mistake.

 

Cayde snorted, and the paper towel you were holding to his eye socket snagged and tore inside of it. _And he didn’t even feel it._

 

This time, you can’t help it. You snort, then you start snickering. Then you burst into fits of giggles, staring at the fluffy white protrusion flaring outward from the side of his optical lense. It was garrish, dyed with red, accentuating the side of his face like the worst/best fake lash you’d ever seen on a living being before.

 

“What, what happened? What do I look like, what did you do?” He pesters, jumping from his seat to find his reflection in a mirror mounted on the left door of his refrigerator.

 

He pauses.

Then he does a heel turn.

Then he looks towards you… and gives you _The Smolder_.

 

And just like that, you can’t contain yourself anymore. You start laughing, gripping your stomach with both arms in an attempt to keep your body upright, neither expecting or suspecting this was what living with your Vanguard for three months might look like; much less from the moment you arrived.

 

And he didn’t look half-bad in red, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LOVE WRITING CUTE SHIT...!!


	5. Motion to Compel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eyes up, Guardian. You've been staring too long.

With everything (finally) settled down and the event of your more or less “violent welcome” behind you, you stand by the front door waiting for Cayde to return from changing out of his sriracha-imbued armor, weary and ready to call it a night.

 

Your surroundings are relatively quiet back in the greeting area, and you find your thoughts drifting back to earlier, when your host had gotten his face gored by hot sauce and you had taken it upon yourself to-- without provocation or hesitation-- clean his entire face for him. Only now does it strike you how strange it is to arrive at your superior's home only a few hours after he had busted you for ferrying contraband, and sponge down his red, slimy face while engaging in witty banter. Although you hadn't seen it that way then, the act was oddly caring and intimate, and you are beginning to feel embarrassed retroactively for your assertiveness.

 

"Hey, Ghost?" You speak up, tentatively.

 

"Yes? What is it?"

 

"Is it weird that I just... you know." You mumble, unsure of how to word 'gave my boss the spa treatment' without sounding weird.

 

"Oh." He pauses his transmatting of your luggage from your vault onto the entryway to stare off into the distance, thinking. "Well, now that you mention it..."

 

"I know, right?" You whisper loudly, relating.

 

"He didn't seem to mind, though. If anything, he was grateful."

 

"For the service or the attention?" You joke.

 

"Probably both."

 

Chuckling softly to yourself, you push the recollection from your mind for the time being, focusing instead on acquainting yourself with the space you will now be occupying for the next three months. You can save awkward self-reflections for another time.

 

Having only explored two rooms of the house so far, and in a veritable frenzy at that; you aren’t sure what to expect from what lies down the hall and up the stairs from your current location at the front door. So maybe the house hasn't exploded yet, but the rumors you've indulged in are still sitting at the back of your head; reminding you that there could be anything lurking around the next corner, hidden in the shadows…

 

Ghost is finishing up relocating your essentials, leaving you to study your surroundings and let your imagination run wild for whatever else lay beyond it. Thankfully and for the most part, however, the room currently serving as Cayde’s foyer seems positively regular.

 

The positioning of the sofa you’d placed Cayde at earlier was a little odd, come to think of it: situated armrest-first in line with the front door and nearly blocking the entire hallway ahead of it. Even more mysterious is the utter lack of any sort of television screen, table, or setup in front of it-- in fact, each of those furnishings are only present behind it, secondary sofa included. You simply have no clue what this couch is doing here.

 

It might be easiest to ask the homeowner himself, when you get the chance.

 

The rest living room looks recently cleaned, to put it lightly. Every surface has been left barren of ordinary objects, decoration, and any lazily discarded laundry or items of importance you you would have normally expected from him. You briefly wonder if the rest of the abode is this unusually spartan; or if there is a closet hidden somewhere out-of-the-way ready to rain an avalanche down upon whatever unlucky soul turns its handle next.

 

“Take care of the rest of it then?” You hear a layered robotic voice echo from up the stairwell midway through the hall. Moments later, a familiar Ghost shimmers into existence inches from your face, causing you to shrink away at the sudden invasion of your personal space.

 

“Got your bags? Great. They’re mine now.”

 

“...What?”

 

“Taking them to your room! Bye!”

 

And she’s gone as quickly as she came, taking all  of your suitcases with her. You hope to the highest powers you know that she doesn’t  _ actually _ go through your things; the image of a Ghost wearing your underwear like a workout headband briefly flashing through your mind. 

 

Then, you’re shaken from your thoughts by the sound of a loud creak and muffled  _ thud _ vibrating the floorboards on the ground level. Looking up, you spy Cayde-6 now suddenly beside the same staircase as before; and a loud, indignant voice from a Ghost from somewhere above you yells “ _ STOP DOING THAT TO THE RAILING! _ ”

 

The voice of reason goes ignored, and Cayde makes the rest of his journey back into the lit room to meet you. He’s changed from his soiled leather armor into a more comfortable combination of baggy black sport sweatpants and white cotton tank top, which clings to his frame just little tighter than the former.

 

Scratch that. A  _ lot _ tighter.

 

With only a lazy, yellow-hued standing lamp in the far left corner of the room to judge his shape by, you’re pushed to the realization that robots really  _ do _ have musculature to them. Bleary shadows catch the slight ripples over his stomach where his abs press through the fabric around them, each step showcasing a different contour of the muscles leading up to his chest area…

 

_ So that isn’t just padding in his chest armor, that gave his pecs shape. _

 

There is a definitive dip beneath the tank’s capture of his chest muscles, cluing you into how much they really  _ do _ show, even without his full armor on. It makes you wonder how well the rest of his torso is sculpted without his shirt stretched out over it…

 

“Guardian?”

 

His hands are in his pockets at the moment, but even with his upper body relaxed like this, you can tell just how broad his shoulders really are; brassy-blue and surprisingly wider than the tapering shape most Hunters like him are known for. Strange how much of that his cloak normally hides in the daytime.

 

“Guardian.”

 

It had been pretty obvious to you before that Cayde’s arms mimic some model of human biceps, but you didn't expect them to look so full and…  _ realistic _ in person, either. Soft carbon replicas, barely reflecting the light around them, form around each arm’s length-- although they don’t shine nearly as much as the rest of the thematically green-tinted blue brushed metal framing them.

 

You’re fascinated by the look of him. A more Hunter part of you yearns to reach out and just  _ touch _ the surface of his arms, tempted by the discovery of the unknown. What do they feel like? What does it look like when he moves, what would it feel like underneath your fingertips, then?

 

The swathes of illuminated metal already seem so much closer, so much more tangible, all you have to do is raise a hand and--

 

“ _ Psst. _ ” Cayde sounds, less than a foot away from your face.

 

You nearly leap out of your skin.

 

The Vanguard tilts backward, taken by a solid two-to-three seconds of uninterrupted laughter, by which time you come to realize you’ve been staring too long… and are immediately overcome with embarrassment. Your cheeks flame with a brilliant red, averting your eyes.

 

“You are a _ treat, _ you know that Guardian? I almost forgot none of you ever get to see me without my hood up, which part of the fun, really. Keeps them guessing.” He explains conspiratorially, giving the horn in the center of his head a good flick for emphasis.

 

_ Wait. _

_ Did he think you was staring at the top of his head?! _

 

Your eyes widen at the prospect of getting handed your first “get out of jail free” pass today, practically giddy that you wouldn’t have to suffer through the torture of what would inevitably be your roommate teasing you over your obviously ogling, for Traveler knows how long.

 

“Yeah… makes sense. Uh, where am I sleeping?” Eagerly, you steer away from the subject.

 

“You okay there partner? Your face looks like it’s about to shoot hot sauce everywhere.” The exo resists the bait, though, smile growing over his face.

 

_ Shit. _

 

“I’m just a little warm! Can we move on, please?” You nearly beg, moving past him for the staircase you hope will bring you closer to salvation.

 

“What are you in such a hurry for, Hunter? You’re not going anywhere for three more months!” He calls after you, bare footsteps surprisingly soft on the wood flooring to your back. 

 

Nonetheless, he resigns himself to host-status, angling past you to lead the way up to your new bed, which ends up being the first door on the left after reaching the top of the staircase.

 

Your housemate opens the door for you with a flourish, as if he were exhibiting a prize on a ritzy game show, complete with flamboyant wafting hand gestures. However, the lights flick on to reveal a basic room with basic attributes, a twin-sized bed, nightstand with lamp, dresser and window. Not all that cozy looking, but serviceable.

 

You should probably reserve your judgements as long as you’re under house arrest, though.

 

“Voila. Make yourself at home, roomie, and don’t stay up too late watching cartoons. We’re up bright and early tomorrow so I can give you a rundown of the rules and regs before I leave. Maybe even a tour. I dunno.” Pause. “We’ll see.” He rattles off rapidly, probably eager to get to sleep himself.

 

You press past him into the small dwelling, eyes finding your luggage stacked in a precariously balanced tower behind the door, unopened.

 

“Oh, and Guardian?” Your ear catches Cayde-6’s tentative voice, and you turn to meet his gaze. “Try not to admire the goods too much while you’re here. I know, I’m irresistible, but still technically your superior officer.”

 

The color in your face returns in earnest, and Cayde drinks it in, chuckling softly to himself. “Anyway. Sweet dreams!” And the door shuts, its vibrations sending the stack of luggage topping to the floor.

 

_ That cheeky bastard! _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm uploading a lot right now, but please don't start expecting nightly uploads! I'll slow down eventually, and when I do, I'll need that time for other things. As with all previous chapters, I'll probably go in to edit once or twice before I post again, to clear up inconsistencies/add more imagery/correct typos, so if anything you see doesn't make sense, don't worry! I've already probably noticed it, too. :)
> 
> EDIT: I added some more to the beginning, and tweaked a few sentences to match!


	6. Gravity Slingshot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You get the feeling this the embarrassing moments you encounter while here aren't going to let up anytime soon...

Usually your mornings start out pretty simple; with Ghost coaxing you towards consciousness using a gentle voice, well aware by now of what kind of catastrophe startling a Hunter awake can result in. After all, it's not like it's  _ your _ fault your class has such a pension for light slumber-- realistically, some qualities are just necessary in some of Earth's stealthiest defenders.

 

Maybe Sundance should have known this before setting off an alarm on maximum volume right next to your left ear, though.

 

“Hey can you get down from there? I don't think the ceiling’s really supposed to uhm…”

 

She glances away from you, no doubt embarrassed at the uncomfortable situation she's now  created, unwittingly, and at your expense.

 

“Support the weight of a whole Guardian?” You snap back at her from your unusual perch high above her, your hands and feet glued to the sheetrock over your bed. 

Hanging from the ceiling.

Upside-down.

 

“Yeah, yeah.” She confirms quickly, fins clicking against each other impatiently.

 

You look almost like a tree frog glaring down at her, head craning backward to make eye contact while each limb bends to grip the surface beneath or behind you using only void energy to hold you to the surface, swirling lazily around your skin in luminous purple puddles.

 

“Not a chance. I'm stuck here until the light fades.” You grumble, straining against the splotches beneath your fingertips and toes to prove your point.

 

“I tried to warn her…” Your own Ghost reprimands from your nightstand, and the look in his eye speaks of many similar experiences. With nothing you can do to help yourself at the moment, you emit a heavy sigh, and resigning yourself to fate. 

 

Sundance hasn’t given up just yet, though.

 

“Fantastic. Fantastic--  _ Cayde! _ ” The pint-sized drone calls out suddenly, spinning to project her voice from the doorframe, and despite not being able to move anything else, your feel your heart drop. 

 

“...Whaaat?” Distantly.

 

“Can you get the broom?”

 

Now you can feel your stomach dropping.

“Wait-- no! Just wait for the light to fade!” You half-reason, half-plead.

 

A moment of quiet from his end.

 

“ _ You're _ the Ghost!” 

 

“It's not where I put it last!”

 

You pull at your restraints a little more desperately.

 

Cayde’s voice gets a little louder, he's probably leaning out his doorway now. “The hell do you need a  _ broom _ for anyway, you practicing frame impressions?” 

 

You pause.  _ Wait, do they never sweep?! _

 

“Just come look, then!”

 

“Please don't come look!” You counter, nearly flailing. 

The last thing you need now was your boss strolling in to see you in nothing but a tank-top and boxer shorts, looking like a creature from a horror movie lurking above his guest room. And what if he saw your nipples through your shirt?

 

There’s no moment of quiet this time.

Only the sound of rapid footfalls, thundering down the hall.

 

Cayde-6 is at your room, wearing his full armor, in seconds. “What am I missing? What am I-- hey! Where's the G--”

 

“Look up.”

 

_ Oh no. _

 

A pair of icy white-blue eyes meet yours, his confused, yours fearful. You can see the moment of recognition hit him, as you look on anxiously. The following moment of disbelief. Then, his eyes light up like a whole galaxy of stars.

 

Your Vanguard erupts into fits of laughter, metallic-sounding cackling that leave him almost unable to control himself. In a desperate attempt to keep his balance, an arm shoots out to latch onto the doorframe and hold him aloft; while the other points to you weakly as if he wants to say something, but just can’t get the words out. “How did--  _ wheeze _ \-- did--  _ snicker--  _ on the  **_ceiling_ ** _! _ Pff--  _ BAhaHAha…” _

 

The ridicule continues on, and you, still stranded experiencing your second misfortune of the morning, are starting to consider the welcome embrace of death.

 

There’s a second or two when you think he might be finished, and your torture might finally be through, but as his chuckles begin to wane, he looks up at you again… and bursts into hysterics. Sundance starts giggling alongside him, and ever your Ghost is trying not to look at you too directly.

 

There’s warmth in your cheeks now, as you silently curse this cruel and unforgiving universe that sees fit to turn your life into an ongoing joke.

 

_ I bet they don’t have problems like this in whatever universe the Hive come from, just bug people and really crunchy floors. I wish I was a bug person… _

 

“Feeling a little down, Guardian?” Cayde’s Ghost teases.

 

That’s it.

You can’t take it anymore.

 

“Stop-- stop laughing and help me down!” You stutter frustratedly, a frown carved into your features.

 

“Sundance, get the broom!” The exo exclaims through shaky breaths. “The bathtub, in the bathtub!”

 

“No! No no no don't do it!” You’re practically holler, willing the binds to come loose, their hold on you weakening at last.

 

_ Come on, come on… _

 

_ Fwip _ . One leg comes loose.

_ Fwip _ . The opposite arm.

 

By now, Cayde is still vibrating from laughter, but is thankfully competent enough to take notice of your current situation.

 

“I gotcha, I gotcha!” He promises frantically, dashing over and holding his arms out a linebacker waiting for a pass.

 

_ Fwip, fwip. _

 

You land like a ton of bricks in Cayde's arms, and he grunts, hoisting you up so that he could stand with you laid over his arms, bridal style. 

 

With an arm under your back and another hooked under your knees, he hefts you up a bit higher to get your attention from closer to his face. Still red in the face, you cautiously meet his eyes, which are still glowing with mirth, a smile pushing up the seams lining his metal face.

 

“Rule number one…” He states, releasing your legs so that you could stand, which frees his hand to flick your nose.

 

_ Ouch! _

 

“No more Light stuff.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I little later than the last one, I know! I was grinding for Festival of the Lost! XD  
> Next chapter will probably be the Halloween Special, which won't be following the series continuity. It will be more like... a one-shot! Yeah! So keep your eyes out for that!
> 
> Note: I went back and added some dialogue to the beginning of Ch. 5, if you're interested. ;o


	7. Horror Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's officially your first day under house arrest! Ghost, queue my celebration emote!

“Wait-- no Light? No Light at _all?_ ” You echo, flabbergasted. Cayde-6 only nods, crossing his arms over his chest in his usual signature style.

 

“Considering how I’m not really supposed to be using Light inside the house to begin with-- and that’s between me and the landlord, don’t ask-- it’s probably bad I didn’t tell you that right off the bat. So, sorry about that.” Cayde’s eyes flash away for a moment. “Not really supposed to use it outside the house either, come to think of it.”

 

Mirroring him by folding your arms together over your tank top, you let an impatient frown furrow your features, signalling your roommate to get on with it.

 

“Getting sidetracked. Back to the point. Rule numbero uno, no Light inside or outside-o, and there will be no problemos.” He clarifies, though with a sinking heart, it does little to ease your worries. Light is tied to the way you operate not only as a Guardian, but as a living, breathing person. Your Light is a gift, you were born with it, and like air, you can’t imagine living without it.

 

“How can I keep myself from using it?” You drill him, distress further souring your expression. “Using Light is so second nature, I’ll end up using it by accident anyway.”

 

The Gunslinger’s hands raise in self-defense. “Hey, hey! Don’t go getting your jammies in a jumble, do you remember those fancy bracelets I snapped on you last night?”

 

You freeze in place. “Please don’t.”

 

He responds with a bark of laughter. “Too bad! So sad.” The exo takes a half-second to produce the same pair of manacles as the night before from one of his side-pouches, then begins to twirl them around each of his index fingers a little _too_ cheerfully.

 

You eye them with an increasing (but internalized) contempt, studying the bright lines racing around their metal circumferences with each revolution. Yesterday, you hadn’t dared test what they were capable of; having assumed that they were some sort of fancy Light detector and that activating them would result in a full squadron of City Militia breaking down your front door to aim guns at your face.

 

In hindsight that was _maybe_ a little far-fetched, but what were you to expect? You haven’t been arrested before.

 

“Ever hear someone say ‘I’m rubber, you’re glue?’” Your Vanguard asks randomly, bringing you out of your disgruntled stupor.

 

“Yes…?” Comes your uncertain answer, worried about where this is heading.

 

Two consecutive snaps, and light pressure on each of your wrists informs you that Cayde has returned the cuffs to your side once more, the action taking place so quickly that you wait there for a solid second before registering that his hands are on your wrists.

 

“Well these are rubber--” He pinches the cuffs and jangles them. “And you’re glue!”

 

Directing your sight downward to examine your restraints, you realize-- much to your relief-- that there’s no longer a chain connecting the braces, allowing you full movement of your arms. “Go on, try using your Light.” Your captor encourages, stepping back to give you room to experiment.

 

Returning attention back to your front, you gaze at him with eyes full of skepticism, but he seems intent on your reaction, looking between you and your matching bracelets every few seconds.

 

_This is either going to be the most embarrassing moment of my life, or my most painful._

 

You ponder, and though you’re still consumed by a feeling of mistrust, you concede and summon a spark of arc energy to your fingertips. You hold it on the tip of your index finger, waiting for something to happen… and just as you’re about to release it, the energy rebounds; retargeting itself back at you with a painful _snap_ , seizing the muscles all the way up your arm to your head.

 

“ _Ouch!_ ” You wince, gritting your teeth reflexively. Cayde giggles at you.

 

“That was mean!” You whine, your face forming a pout as you frantically attempt to settle your wild, staticy bedhead. You haven't gotten a chance to comb it yet, and after this, you can feel a nightmare beginning to take shape up there.

 

“Disobeying direct orders was mean! You really hurt my feelings, you know! Which brings me to rule number two.” He segways quickly, distracted from his tirade by his original purpose.

 

“Following the Vanguard Official Code of Conduct?” You fill for him.  
  
“No, hurting my feelings. Well _yes_ , follow the Code but more _importantly_ , you’re not allowed to be mean to me as long as I'm home. I could be in the shower, in bed, on the couch, in a call, yada yada, don't do it.” It takes some willpower not to snort out a laugh at that, the noise you make in the back of your throat isn't pretty, though. Putting on a smile, you bat your eyelashes a few times to let him know you're still being a good listener.

 

“As soon as I leave, you can let it fly. Yell insults at the door, make voodoo dolls, throw knives at a dartboard with my face on it. Whatever. But while I’m here, keep to yourself.” He orders, gesturing over his shoulder noncommittally.

 

“You can talk as much shit about Sundance as you want, _but_ , be aware she can hear anything within a one-point-five mile radius and has perfected the art of transmatting twenty pound cement blocks.”

 

Ouch. You don’t like the sound of that. “Rule number three?” You press, eager to continue. The air around you is becoming cold, settling over your skin and giving you goosebumps, now that you've achieved a resting heart rate.

 

“Rule number three?” He pauses, noticing your body slowly receding into itself for warmth. “No rule number three. Well not yet, haven’t thought that far. But enough of that! Let’s go for a tour!” He trumpets in attempt to coax some enthusiasm out of you, then reaches over to tear the top sheet off of your bed and toss it your way, as if he was casting a net.

 

You don’t have time to disentangle your fingers from your hair before fabric hits your head, so it takes you some time to react, fumbling in the dark underneath your cloth cage in an attempt to locate its edges. Finally, you manage to pull the cloth down around your shoulders into a more or less satisfactory shawl, just in time to catch sight of a leather heel out of the corner of your eye as it disappears around the doorframe.

 

“Let’s go Guardian! I’m out in 05!” An exo’s voice echoes from the staircase.

 

Growling to yourself both in frustration at his ceaseless antics and in lamentation of your crazed hair, you reconcile with your lack of proper clothing by pulling the sides of the bedsheet around your front to cover more of your chest. This definitely isn’t your ideal start to a day, but, duty… er, house arrest, calls.

 

“Coming!” You holler back, gathering up the remainder of the makeshift cloak pooled at your feet, and hustling towards the stairs.

 

You find him waiting at the bottom step, drumming impatiently on the railing-- but just as soon as he locks eyes with you, he’s off again, disappearing into the hallway behind the stairwell.

 

“Alright roomie, starting with that room back there, we have the first floor bathroom.” He gestures grandly as if he were a ringmaster at a circus introducing an act, at the the furthest door you can see. It’s the only room remaining after turning left where the hallway ends, the wall it occupies taken up by a splintered wooden door that creaks as you push it open. It groans against its hinges the further you press, and you get the sneaking suspicion that it doesn’t close all the way either, judging by the state the knob is in.

 

“The hot water doesn’t work in there, so you’re better off using the upstairs shower. Or maybe you like suffering through that kind of thing, not my call to make, just my duty to impart. And if you need a refill on anything--” a fist comes up to bang on the slim door of the closet to the bathroom’s left “It’s all in the closet right here. Moving on.”

 

With a flick of his cape he rounds the corner, leading the way back into the main hallway to come sliding to a stop by the only two doors lining its side, adjacent to the stairs you’d just descended. He points to the one on the right, first. “That’s the basement. There’s a couple machines down there for washing clothes, just… do yourself a favor and avoid throwing in anything with buckles or holsters on it. Trust me, did that last week, and it’s not pretty.” He warns in an almost sing-song voice, patting one of his belts over his hip to emphasize.

 

You’re relieved for a moment that he’s not facing you, as the face you making at him would clearly break rule number two. _Does he not know how to do his own laundry? How has he been keeping his clothes clean all this time?_

 

Next, he points to the one on the left. “And that one’s off-limits. There’s nothing in there anyway, so don’t try it. I even locked it.” He jiggles the knob to demonstrate its inaccessibility. You nod slowly, catching a little bit of shortness to his speech, but his face is still turned away from you, removing any ability to examine his expression.

 

Gloved hands clap together. “The kitchen!” He announces, and strides off in its direction, with you ambling after him, still trying to keep your blanket centered around your body.

 

The tour goes on for two whole minutes after that, during which time your host imparts ominous warnings regarding the back of the refrigerator, the proper and improper use of the door to the back patio, and finishes with a equally brief description of his relationship with the neighbors, his exact words being “What neighbors?”

 

He leaves you at the front door, departing with a quick wave and complementary “official welcoming” to the household by tapping a knife on each shoulder and knighting you his roommate. You laugh and accept the induction with a small bow, forgetting for a moment how irregular the circumstances of your stay are.

 

His goofiness, his mannerisms, they make everything about your house arrest seem so regular and unintimidating. Despite the turbulence of the past few days, you catch yourself looking forward to the next three months, in a small way. And now with your housemate out the door, you stand in an empty house with a handful of rooms to frequent and all the time in the world to make yourself at home.

 

“Well, the day is ours…” Ghost begins, uncertainty making his tone sound delicate. He floats up from somewhere by your right shoulder to make small talk. “We could… play chess? Watch a movie?”

 

You hear his voice recede behind you as he approaches the cabinet under the TV in search of something film-related. “Unless you don't like Die Hard, or Die Hard two, Die Hard with a Vengeance, Live Free or Die Hard… goodness, how many Die Hard movies does he own? Oh! There’s a home video here labeled 'Sparrow Chicken and Other Extreme Sports.'”

 

 _Oh, now_ **_that_ ** _sounds interesting._

 

You note, stowing the information for later-- unfortunately, now was not the time for couch potatoing with Cayde’s private collection. “Not until I finish scoping the place out. I mean _really_ scoping the place out.” You turn down, and moving away from the front door, you step around the ever-obstructing sofa in the path between you and the kitchen.

 

“I’ve gotten more descriptive tours from Brother Vance. And he’s blind.” You breathe out. “And if I want to shape myself into the ideal roommate, I have to start by figuring out how this man lives.”

 

“Fair.” Ghost relents, and returns to your side. “Where do we begin, then?”

 

Mashing your lips together in thought, your gaze roams the kitchen’s perimeter until they lock onto the pantry doors. Who knows what sort of horrors lie in wait beyond its unassuming exterior? Suddenly, you wonder if exploding sriracha bottles are the least of your worries.

 

“There.”

 

Advancing on it, you gingerly pry the doors open, allowing the overhead lights to cascade over its inscrutable bounty of…

 

2 bottles of hot sauce

1 jar of expired mayo

And two entire shelves jam packed with packets of instant ramen.

 

“I don’t know what I expected.” You shut the doors, returning Cayde’s meal substitutes to the dark abyss from whence they came. “I think I forgot whose house I was living in.”

 

Your companion is snickering by your ear “This makes a lot of sense, considering him, actually. Does he ever talk about any food _other_ than ramen?”

 

You open your mouth to respond, when a thought hits you.

 

“Oh, god…” You moan, bringing a hand up to your face to drag fingers painfully down its surface. “What do you think is in his _fridge_?”

 

“I don’t know.” There’s an audible moment of hesitation. “Let’s find out.”

 

“Scan it first.”

 

“Of course.”

After a moment of probing its surface with dancing rays of light, the drone gives you the okay to open its doors, and reveal what you can only describe as a temperature-controlled version of the pantry; with an identical stock of packages stuffed between its shelves, and even more loose packs crammed into the door’s racks.

 

A sigh escapes you. “Spread out, let’s see what else we can find.” You order, though you can feel a smile rising to your lips, nearly laughing at the absurdity of all of this. Just how many places did he have these little lunches squirreled away in?

 

A thorough investigation of the rest of Cayde’s kitchen reveals two important things to you. One, that he has never stored, prepared, or eaten anything outside of instant ramen. Second, that he doesn’t know how to store, prepare or eat anything outside of instant ramen.

 

In the time it took you to rummage through all of the cabinets and drawers, you found no less than four other stashes of ramen noodles, a depressing lack of stove and kitchen ware, and a collection of utensils comprising of only plastic spoons and forks, without a single knife in sight.

 

_Wonder why that could be._

 

Regardless, you already feel like your work has been cut out for you. Even if Cayde-6 is a robot, he doesn’t have to eat like he doesn’t have any taste buds. With the range of recipes you’ve learned while living on your own, you’re certain you can steer him towards more sane eating habits.

 

At any rate, you aren’t going to settle for salty cubes of vegetables and noodles for a whole three months.

 

Catching your ghost’s attention, you ask him to start a shopping list, and spend a solid portion of the afternoon going through supplies you’ll need; debating brands and comparing costs, and even downloading a few new recipes off of the internet. By the time the sun is beginning to set, the two of you have developed near perfect game plan; the only persisting problem being that you have no way of going out and getting any of the items yourself, and being under house arrest prohibits you from getting them delivered to the door.

 

You both come to the conclusion that Cayde or Sundance will have to be the ones carrying out the deed, and you’re uncertain of how receptive they’ll be to the idea. The only way you’ll be able to find out for sure, is by asking them when they get home.

 

In the meantime, you swallow a couple bowls of noodles, and get busy relocating as many of the chilled bricks of into the pantry as you can; saving the mayo disposal for when you have access to a hazmat suit.

 

Before you know it, the day is gone, the world outside the window is as black as the void, and Cayde-6 is pushing through the front door. The moment you hear the soles of his boots trudging across the carpet, you dash out from the kitchen to meet him, eager to inform him of your plans. Enthusiasm sells, after all.

 

“Cayde! I have th--” Pausing mid-sentence to take in his appearance, for the second time in 24 hours you’re shocked by look he’s wearing on his face.

 

Exhaustion sits deep in the core of his irises, making them look dim and lifeless, and it’s as if you can see the battery symbol behind his eye sockets flashing red as his body struggles to operate with the power it’s been left with. It takes a full two seconds for him to even realize you’re standing there, his sight directing itself at you almost mechanically before it actually focuses some modicum of attention on your face. You see his battery drop another percent just from putting forth the effort.

 

“Oh… Guardian!” Though his voice is slurred from fatigue, he still manages to sound happy to see you. His feet continue to slide over the carpet as he attempts conversation. “...Did you have a nice d-”

 

The exo takes his last step, knee colliding with the couch, and sending him careening over its arm like a broken teeter-totter; face and front planting themselves firmly in the cushions. A leg comes up behind him, carried by the momentum, and stays coiled up behind him, giving him the appearance of a lifeless scorpion.

 

You wait three seconds. Five seconds. Ten. “Cayde?” No response.

 

“Cayde?” You ask a little louder, approaching with caution. As you draw closer, you begin to hear the gentle, subdued sounds of the Hunter Vanguard breathing into his new pillow… fast asleep. You breathe in. “Oh my god. Cayde? Did you just pass out?”

 

Again, no answer. You reach out and grab his shoulder, giving it a good shake. “Cayde!”

 

“Try all you want, not even death will wake him now.” Sundance appears out of seemingly nowhere, which, while normal for ghosts, causes you to hop back in alarm. “Trust me, it’s happened before. I revived him, and he was _still_ asleep.”

 

The robot closes in on his head, flipping back the hood to his cloak, and teleporting the whole thing off of his body from where he lay. “Vanguard ops put him through the wringer. Before I put the couch here, he would make it two steps through the door… and just collapse.” Her voice gets quieter, despite her claim that Cayde can’t be woken.

 

 _Oh. So_ **_that’s_ ** _why that’s there._

 

You stare at the odd configuration of exo and furniture that lays before you, unable to resist wincing aloud at the thought of waking up in the same position the next morning, full of cramps and numb limbs. “Well he can’t just sleep here, he’s going to wake up feeling like he’s been liquified. Can’t you transmat him into his bedroom?”

 

“Nope. No Light in the house, you know the rules.” She responds in a dead tone. Breathing out through your nose in a rough exhale, you narrow your eyes at Cayde’ slumbering corpse, thinking.

 

Now you believe, more than ever, you need to show what you can do-- what you can offer as a roommate. As someone who can be relied on. So with a determined look set on your face, you step forward to prove yourself, ramming both arms underneath him, and prepare yourself to engage Human Forklift.

 

“Woah woah woah, you actually think you can lift a whole exo with your bare hands?” The Vanguard’s ghost interjects, zipping over to stare you in the face.

 

“Somebody’s-- gotta-- do it!” You grunt out, trying to ignore the invasion of personal space.

 

“No, nobody’s gotta do it. He’ll be fine, he’s been doing this for years.” She protests, but you’re having none of it. With a massive lurch, you heave the metal man off from his former sleeping space and onto your waiting shoulder, performing a very lopsided fireman’s carry. With a staggering start, you rise to your feet, nearly losing your balance twice before you begin walking. You almost use your Light as a crutch, then remember last second what that would afford you.

 

“You’re not gonna be able to do it, Guardian. You can barely even lift him, how do you think you’re gonna get him up the stairs?” Alright. Now, the female ghost’s buzzing is starting to get to you.

 

“Will you _stop_ , already? Either help me or stay out of it, I’m _not_ going to drop him and I’m _not_ going to let him sleep like that.”

 

After saying that, you’re hit with a wave of fear. Did you just talk back to your Vanguard’s ghost? You’re too embarrassed to even look at her for a reaction, so you just trudge onward, hoping she isn’t preparing to shoot a laser beam through your head the moment you look to the side.

 

True to her word, the stairs are difficult. For every two steps you ascend, you have to stop and re-adjust the human-shaped chunk of metal taking up your shoulder to make sure he doesn’t end up thunking down the stairs one step later, and eliminate all of the progress you’ve made so far.

 

In total, it takes ten minutes to get him to the door of his bedroom, which Sundance takes mercy on you by opening herself.

 

Though the room is dark, you can make out the shape of the foot of his bed well enough, praying that you don’t trip over anything along the way. Your journey ends with one massive _whallop_ as the exo’s body hits the mattress with megaton force, causing both his form and the mattress to bounce several times beneath him from the impact.

 

You spend a few minutes adjusting his limbs under the bedsheets to get him as comfortable as you can before heading out the door, ready to call it a night yourself. However, as you’re about to shut the door, you hear the voice of a ghost from somewhere behind you catch your attention.

 

“Hey, Guardian… thanks, for that.”

 

Your shoulders slacken with relief, a smile finding your face. “You’re welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! This one kept getting longer, I just kept writing and writing and writing! Hope the wait was worth it!  
> I also renamed all of the chapters to the names of weapons you can find in the game (Destiny 2, right now). This chapter's title is the name of the exclusive Festival of the Lost weapon, aka, the only reason I'm at 590 right now. Hehee.
> 
> I spent time writing a story for my dear beloved friend Biozonic; it's a story taking place during the Forsaken DLC featuring a pairing with her Guardian OC, Sherazade, and Cayde-6! If you think you might be interested, come and read [Best Bet I Ever Took](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16526126/chapters/38711717)!


	8. A Swift Verdict

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With your criminal report written up and ready to deliver, there's only one step left to take before he can officially declare himself your probation officer: getting Commander Zavala to agree to it.

When Cayde wakes up in an entirely different environment than he remembers falling unconscious in, he almost ends up in the same state that Sundance had rendered their guest the previous morning. Thankfully, his surprise isn't violent enough to plaster him to the ceiling, but he _does_ perform a dodge roll into his nightstand. His ghost knows immediately.

 

“Was that Light I just heard?” She hollers from downstairs, and he groans, instinctively feeling around his forehead to make sure that his horn is still attached.

 

“Quiet down, there are people still in _bed!_ ” He yells back, standing up to survey the wreckage. The nightstand is still intact, but scratched to hell on one side, and missing a leg. He bends down to right it again, pleased to find that it stands as well on three legs as four.

 

_Thunk._

 

… Maybe not then.

 

The door to his room creaks open. “Did you break an-- oh my god you broke the nightstand.” Sundance sighs in aggravation, her singular holographic eye narrowing at the fresh carnage. “I knew I shouldn’t have let them carry you up here, _of course_ this was going to happen.” She begins to rant, but Cayde stops her by raising a hand.

 

“Woah woah woah woah, the Guardian carried me up here last night?”

 

She’s silent for a second. “Well yeah, obviously.” Picking up on his confused look, the drone spares him an answer before he starts piling a mountain of questions on top of her.

 

“Look, I don’t know why _exactly_ , but I think something about you lying motionless with half of your body weight on your face for seven hours straight didn’t sit right with them.” She explains, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, which in this case, it is.

 

“Wouldn’t take no for an answer either. Why don’t you ask them when you get home? You can thank them, and ask them to tie your arms to the bedpost so you don’t freak out next time.” She offers, and then laughs, her chuckles reverberating down the hallway as she leaves again.

 

Cayde snorts, peering through his door at the only other not currently ajar, a little further down the way. With any luck, its occupant isn’t grappling with the ceiling tiles from another rude awakening; a little smirk catching the Vanguard’s mouth at the memory.

 

_They’re a good sort. Maybe a little too good for their own good._

 

\---

 

Today’s a pretty normal day at the Tower for Cayde-6, the only thing that’s changed between today and the day before being the completion of the Guardian’s criminal report. Meaning, he will have to visit the Commander and debrief him on the case’s conclusion _personally_ , since the months-long weapons smuggling operation they’d been heading has turned into a big enough problem for even the Big Z to get a headache over.

 

The thing is, Cayde knows that makes his new roomie a big deal-- and definitely not in a good way. In more of the… “lock them up for a few years and feed them nothing but protein paste on toast” kind of way, and less so in the “move in with your Vanguard for a fun three month sleepover” kind of way.

 

The exo grips the singular datapad device in his hand a little tighter, and taps it against an open palm as he walks into the main building, thinking. He knows he’s going to have to defend his course of action. Sure, this Hunter is his responsibility; but this issue is a little too serious for just _house arrest_ and he knows that he’ll be hearing opinions regarding that, whether or not he wants to.

 

Cayde’s going to need to win over some hearts today-- or rather, one really big blue heart, if he wants to go through with his initial plan. And Traveler knows he wants to.

 

Strolling up to the Commander’s station in the office area, the Gunslinger knocks on his way in, then drops the criminal report on his desk with a mighty _twap_. “Morning to you, Big Blue, I hope you’ve had your coffee, ‘cause this one’s a doozy.”

 

With some measure of self-satisfaction, he sees the Awoken man’s eyes brighten from their typical stoic, calculating stare directed at whatever bureaucratic drivel he’d been absorbing, and trace their way up his desk to locate the doozy in question.

 

“Cayde. You’ve identified the weapons smuggler?” His voice lilts as he speaks. Even a shut in like the Commander loves a little action talk.

 

“Better than that, found and arrested, with a recorded confession. Turns out they’re one of my Hunters, and sadly, one of the best I have. All the info you need on them is right there.” Zavala snatches up the pad and begins scanning through its contents fervidly, his perfectly trimmed eyebrows arching in great interest.

 

His visitor leans a side into the desk, basking in the afterglow of a job well done. “Every last bit of it is typed, saved, and backed up in the Vanguard data banks. The only part my ‘chicken scratch’ has touched is the sign-off. All for you, big guy.” He prides, even though he knows his words are now bouncing off a proverbial brick wall.

 

Reaching over the desk, he gives the man’s cheek a couple of doting pats, pleased to find that Ol’ Shoulderpads is far too intent on soaking up all of the information he’s been handed to care. It’s the perfect opportunity, the Hunter determines, to take his leave; and if he’s quick enough, he can get out of earshot before the Titan shouts his name from the door.

 

“I’ll leave you to your… uh, that, then. My work here is done, tata!” Removing his weight from the counter, Cayde proudly dusts off his hands, and slips out the exit as smoothly as--

 

“Cayde.”

 

_Sigh._

 

“Still here.”

 

“I haven’t dismissed you yet.” Zavala points at the chair across from his workstation; the judging hand of fate, and there, the means of his condemnation. With a stab of disappointment Cayde observes that it isn’t even one of the rolly chairs that the rest of the office has. Typical, no-fun Zavala. He takes the seat, slouching in defeat.

 

There’s glasses on the Titan Vanguard’s face now, and he uses them like weapons to reflect piercing rays of disapproval directly at his co-worker as he stares up at him from underneath the lenses. “Your convict is recorded to have distributed two hundred and forty one separate arms, no less than five hundred and ninety seven cases of various ammunition, and twenty four other dangerous items including explosives.” He prefaces, as if he expects the figure before him to pay attention to the numbers.

 

“So explain to me, how exactly, you figured placing them under _house arrest_ on your _own premises_ constituted as a suitable punishment for distributing City weapons and technology to drifters and city-limiters.” He demands, letting the datapad fall flat on the table with a sustained clatter.

 

Cayde carefully considers the most impressive words he knows while forming a response. Sadly, he doesn’t have many to choose from. “You remember that part when I told you they’re one of the best I have?”

 

Zavala’s eyes narrow, a sign that he’s already jumping to conclusions. “That’s no excuse for misconduct. We lost one of our own Vanguard in a similar fashion.” He growls, and Cayde doesn’t need to ask to know who he’s referring to.

 

“Right right right. So, their skill? Top-notch. But that’s not… _really_ what I’m talking about here,” He diverts, and holds his hand out, palm up, to summon his ghost. She appears, and floats over to the data pad on the desk to download a copy of your service record onto its awaiting screen. Lines of text, photos, and spreadsheets flood the device's screen while its presenter speaks.

 

“Take a look at this kid. Stellar records in Vanguard and strike operations right up until the Red War; they’ve got recs from the bottom to the top detailing their ‘aptitude for team support’ and more importantly, their _backup_ role.” Cayde starts out, and Zavala leans back in his chair, listening patiently.

 

“It doesn’t sound very glamorous, until you consider what 'backup role' is fancy-Vanguard-talk for.” The Hunter stands up, and leans over the desk to scroll down to a list of their notable recorded victories, letting the evidence speak for itself.

 

 **MISSION REPORT** :: 09 04 27XX :: STRIKE

_Nessus -- Legion Dig Site, The Anchor -- Inverted Spire_

Two Guardians in Fireteam Incisor were downed by a Vex Modular Mind at the spire’s base. [Guardian] proceeded to defend reviving ghosts by deflecting heavy incoming fire from all hostiles to the Modular Mind with an arc staff. The Super was held until the Mind succumbed to its injuries and disintegrated into a field of radiolarian fluid below it. No casualties.

 

 **MISSION REPORT** :: 10 25 27XX :: ROAMING

_Nessus -- The Tangle_

Invading Vex soldiers made attempts to construct a spire, and were engaged by a group of five Guardians and [Guardian]. Damaging the spire lead to an increase in Vex resistance, during which four out of five Guardians fell. [Guardian] defended reviving Ghosts by repelling Vex combatants with a line of continuous void tethers, preventing any enemies from coming within 500 ft. of the spire until it was destroyed. No casualties.

 

 **MISSION REPORT** :: 01 16 27XX :: STRIKE

_European Dead Zone -- Sunken Isles, Orobas Vectura -- Firebase Airfield_

Fireteam Epsilon came under heavy fire while pursuing targeted arms dealer “Bracus Zahn” and became unable to retreat or call for backup when the team's ammunition supply fully depleted. [Guardian] risked personal safety by exiting cover to climb to the target’s shielded platform, and dispel Bracus Zahn from the shielded bubble on top manually. Bracus Zahn sustained heavy injuries rendered through blunt force trauma before expiring at the base of the elevated platform. No casualties.

 

 **MISSION REPORT** :: 01 18 27XX :: CRUCIBLE

_European Dead Zone -- The Dead Cliffs_

During a Control match, [Guardian] displayed exceptional stratagem and leadership skills by coordinating attacks on two different fronts to successfully rout enemy Guardians, despite the team’s composition consisting of almost entirely inexperienced Guardians (“kinderguardians”). The match concluded with two zones held for the entirety of the match, a high score, and no kills scored by the enemy team. Generous commendations from Lord Shaxx were awarded.

 

The list of recorded instances goes on for pages, and pages. “They’re the trump card. The ace up the sleeve. Every mission it’s the same outcome, no casualties, across the board. Can you believe it? Not a _single teammate_ bites the dust when this Guardian’s around.” Cayde interrupts, and though Zavala doesn’t make any sign of acknowledgement, he knows the other Vanguard is paying attention. His pale blue hands come up to fold over his chin as striking aquamarine eyes sear their gaze down on the scrolling information, skin luminescence flowing in its usual subdued, creepy Awoken patterns.

 

“But it gets better. Take a look at this.”

 

An in-depth report of the same Guardian’s record over the course of the Red War blazes across the screen, courtesy of Sundance. This time, Cayde narrates. “When their Light went out, they took their ghost, shoved it in a pocket, and got to work evacuating civilians from the City. Do you have any idea how many people they lead out the gates? The sheer volume of innocent lives they saved using the one life they had left to give, that day?”

 

Cayde-6 flicks the screen downward to reveal a slew of blurry pictures taken of citizens being shepherded out of the City gates, a dotting of Guardians here and there guiding them, and taking up the rear in every shot, is the human Hunter, again. “Eight hundred and fifty one.” Cayde puts, and steps back.

 

In studying his superior’s face, Cayde can see a flash of recognition at the story; it would be unlike him, after all, not to have heard of such an exploit. “Took them into the forest outside the walls and lead a group of whatever Guardians they had to spare back _into the City,_  somehow swiped a fleet of threshers right out from under the Legion’s noses, and flew everyone they had gathered back outside to safety. And you wanna know the wildest part? Scroll to the bottom.”

 

The Awoken man shakes his head, meeting Cayde’s eyes with a knowing look; already aware of the answer. “No civilian casualties.”

 

“You’re damn right no civilian casualties!” Cayde mirrors, elated. “To be fair, luck _was_ on their side, a downed Legion ship carved a pretty convenient path for them through the outlying structures, and forest is an ideal holdout when Cabal forces are hot on your heels.” He justifies, waving his hand back and forth dismissively.

 

“But I think I’ve made my point. This Guardian right here, they’re somethin’ else.”

 

“They _were._ ” Zavala corrects, leaning forward on his elbows to pin Cayde with another authoritative glare, gleaming eyes reflecting in equally gleamy spectacles. “Up until they decided to start playing by their own rules. As Guardians, we don’t have the luxury of dissension. If we do not move towards one goal as a unified front, then we do not move at all…”

 

And there he goes again, prattling on about the purpose of Guardians, City defense this, world peace that, blah blah blah. Inspiring as it is, Cayde’s heard enough of his lofty ideals to last a lifetime. In fact, tolerating this kind of preaching is most of his job description.

 

“... who cannot follow orders are of no use to me, the City, or its people, Cayde.”

 

Tuning in at the right moment-- a skill which Cayde developed over time-- the Hunter barely acknowledges the speech on his way back to his original point.

 

“Yeah! And they aren’t. Trust me, I’m with you on this one Zav, this Guardian did some _dumb shit._  Some _really_ **_dumb_ ** _shit._  When I got to that door two nights ago and saw their face looking back at me? Whoo, I was _pissed_. I mean _really_ pissed, I hadn’t been that pissed since I found out season three of my favorite show was cancelled.” He levels, exaggerating nothing.

 

“But you know who else did some dumb shit, Z? Some _really_ dumb shit?” Cayde prompts, leaning in to play for the crowd effect. He gets his answer.

 

“You did.”

 

“ _Bingo!_ And that was back when Guardians were just starting to become a thing, too. Shit, if I did _half_ the things now that I did back when I was green-horned? I’d be the Vanguard’s personal whipping boy.” His gloves come to rest on the table where he stands hovering over it, demanding all of his fellow Guardian’s attention.

 

“To be fair, you already are that.” The Titan adds, grumbling.

 

“Yes, but I make it look cool. Look. I don’t expect you to agree with my decision here--”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“--but truth is, I’m not always going to _be_ the Hunter Vanguard. Someday, somebody’s gonna come along and shut me up for good, and I’m not looking to put the City in a position of crisis when that day comes.” Tension releases from the exo’s neck, leaving his head hanging from his shoulders loosely, while his vision lays somewhere on the desk between his two stationary hands.

 

A single eyebrow raises above his company’s eye, following the other’s logic. “The City is gonna need a Guardian it can rely on. And I have a good feeling, that it’s this one.” Cayde finishes, re-adjusting his posture, then returning to his seat to wait for his superior’s reaction.

 

Amidst the quiet, Cayde waits for that golden moment, that brilliant, shiny second when… Zavala’s shoulders slump, and his full expanse of his forehead slides into his hands. Cayde nearly throws his fist in the air in victory.

 

When the Commander looks up again, his eyes are tired, faraway, and unfocused. It’s clear he doesn’t want to fight with Cayde about this anymore; he’s busy, he has a City to protect, and he can’t micromanage _everything_ , much as he’d like to. He’s just one man, against worlds of opposition. The look on his face is a rare one, and one his ally treasures more than any other-- it's Zavala realizing he needs to place trust in his fireteam. He needs to place trust in _Cayde._

 

“If these three months end, and I find this Guardian of yours involved in any more illicit activities…”

 

“Yeah yeah, you’ll draw and quarter me, then turn all the itty bitty pieces into a string of Dawning lights to hang up in the Tower square.” Cayde elaborates, leaping up from his seat and strolling towards the door, ready to get on with the rest of his day.

 

Zavala smiles. “Dismissed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A significant reveal on Cayde's end, and a little more insight on your past career! (Of note, here: I may rewrite your backstory a bit as I go-- the Master Plan isn't TOO grand to allow for some wiggle room, relatability is still very important to me, even in a powerful Guardian such as yourself!)
> 
> This chapter introduces they pronouns, which I feel can become a little alienating if you aren't non-binary. Which poses the question, would any of you prefer I add in she/him pronouns as well, or would that be too distracting? (EX: Cayde looked at (his/her/their) bedroom door) If you don't mind, I'll keep it the way it is. Thanks for reading! See you soon!
> 
> EDIT: To clarify, I'm speaking in regards to any writing from Cayde's perspective specifically, in all other instances I plan on using "you/your" to determine perspective. I find it's more immersive that way. Sorry for the confusion!


	9. Autumn Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Cayde's out convincing the Commander, you have an exciting day with an old friend.

You awake to the unmistakable sound of breaking wood and shouting-- and are thankful, briefly, for the racket’s distance from your eardrums; hazy memories from a stressful morning not long ago surfacing among the half-dreamed visions clouding your mind. Your eyelids part to gawk blearily at the indistinct pattern of tiles over your head as your brain churns out spacial awareness a little more gradually this time, reintroducing you to the waking world with care.

 

You know you should go and investigate, but you have important factors to consider before taking action. On one hand, you don’t want to get out of bed; you’re _impressively_ cozy and the level of tuck you’ve managed to achieve around your arms and legs is approaching full-body burrito levels of comfort. But on the other hand, the house could be _on fire_ right now. A darker side of your waking brain imagines the inviting warmth of a house fire by your door, like the heat of a hearth on a cold winter’s day…

 

A familiar voice shatters the intrusive thought. “Quiet down, there are people still in _bed!_ ”

 

_Oh. It's just Cayde._

 

With a yawn, your abated mind urges you back towards sleep, and you relent, feeling no immediate threat to your surroundings. As you pull the covers up around your nose leather boots tromp over the hallway carpet, the sound of another’s early morning industry lulling you back into a doze. Maybe you could get used to house arrest.

 

\---

 

You sleep in for another hour and a half before your slumbering brain decides enough is enough, and smacks the alarm button on top of your body’s internal clock to drive you out of bed. You shouldn’t be surprised; after all, on any other day, you’d be outside the City walls by now, visiting refugee camps to provide protection and aid.

 

There are always Fallen scoundrels and scattered Red Legion forces to be repelled from human encampments, resources to be scavenged, and civilians to be escorted wherever you went; and while City Militia serve well enough in those departments, nothing beats having a Guardian around. You should know; you’re one of the few who actively puts themselves in that role.

 

As you pull on sweatpants and a throw a loose tee over your head, you try to keep your thoughts from roaming to the welfare of those you’ve sworn to protect-- an unsettling tide of guilt crashing at the abutments of your conscience, only one wave in an ocean of fears. Now, your only solace from the tumult is the reminder that you’ve made your bed, and now you must lie in it, every day, for two months and twenty-eight more days. Not much of a reprieve, but at least there's a time limit.

 

The anecdote turns your focus towards the mess of sheets you’ve left behind, and you scrunch up your face in annoyance at the irony, reaching over to tug them back into their proper places. About thirty seconds into your tidying, a knock at your door and the sound of Ghost’s voice outside it draws your attention.

 

“Guardian? Are you awake?”

 

“Mmhm.” You hum affirmatively, tossing pillows up against the headboard.

 

“Oh, thank the Light. I… need your help with something.” Your eyebrows knit together at the bashfulness in his tone, immediately concerned.  “What happened?”

 

“Well, you see…” Before the little light can explain himself, a series of cracking noises resonate through the floorboards from downstairs. “Oh no. I’ve got to go check on that. Please come soon!” He intimates, and presumably books it down the stairs.

 

_Can’t wait to find out what this is about._

 

You grumble inwardly, tucking the corners of the comforter under the sides of the mattress before taking your leave, bounding down the steps and out towards the front room. “Ghost? Where are yo--”

 

A chorus of cracks and smattering sounds emanate from the kitchen, answering your next question before it leaves your mouth, and you close in to investigate, careful not to slip on the smooth floorboards in your socks. Your Light won’t be able to keep you from a good smack in the head this time, and you aren’t keen on discovering what your own void energy would feel like blasted back in your face.

 

The sound of your partner’s grousing meets your ears. “Oh please don’t do th-- gah, why am I even--?”

 

It’s at that moment you round the corner… and everything goes quiet. There, perched on top of the ceiling fan in the kitchen and droning in low, threatening clucks, is a very familiar looking chicken.

 

_Colonel!_

 

Fond memories of the Tower mascot come rushing back to you. For weeks after the War and until the main floors were rebuilt, the little brown bird had pecked her way around the site and into the hearts of many a Guardian and worker. You missed seeing her around.

 

Below her, staring helplessly up at the bird, is the even _bigger chicken_ , your ghost. His shell is punctured with broken stems and frayed barbs, almost completely obscuring him in a fluffy brown cloud; and littering the floor below him are enough feathers to stuff a small down pillow... streaked with chicken shit.

 

You stare at Ghost.

 

He stares back at you.

 

An ugly snort escapes your nose.

 

“Please don’t laugh at me.” Ghost pleads. “It’s been a really bad morning and--” He stops when he notices your hand has flown up to cover your mouth, somewhat successfully muffling the snickers threatening to escape through your fingers. He sighs, and looks down at the floor, dejected. “I’ll wait…”

 

“I’m _sorry!_ ” You burst out, a wild grin still plastered on your face. The chicken doesn’t seem to like your tone, though, and drones at you while feathers puff out around her head and neck. You bring the volume back down a few notches. “How long have you been at this?!”

 

“Well, _this_ only happened about twenty minutes ago…” The robot mumbles, shooting the fan a furtive glance. “But I thought you’d like something for breakfast other than junk food, and remembered that Cayde has a chicken he kept from the Farm.”

 

“But how did she get in _here?_ ”

 

“There’s a hutch out back. All I wanted to do was open the door, and look inside the nest to see if there were any eggs! But she slipped out behind me, and now _this_ has happened.” He bemoans, shaking his paddles in defeat.

 

A pang of guilt hits you for laughing at his misfortune, and the hand comes down from beside your mouth to cover your chest, touched from his effort. “Thank you Ghost, but you really shouldn’t have.” You comfort gently.

 

“I’m sorry about all this…” The drone sighs, drifting over to your side, feather accoutrements fluttering from the movement. “Don’t be, you’re an angel. But…” You parse, biting your lip as you survey the mess this misadventure has created. “We’re going to have to fix this, somehow. Can you pull up a manual on chicken care?”

 

His eye brightens at the idea, then twirls, as he goes about surfing the internet for a worthwhile guide. You find yourself a broom, and a suitable piece of paper to sweep the chicken scraps into in place of a dustpan, making a mental note to add one to the shopping list.

 

The both of you spend the better part of thirty minutes reading through guidebooks and tutorials, discussion posts, and even watch a few short videos, after which you decide you’re ready to wrangle yourself a chicken. You figure it shouldn’t be too difficult, seeing how Colonel has been handled many times before by Cayde and other Guardians, but you’re not just trying to be a good roommate. You’re trying to be the _best_ roommate.

 

“Alright Colonel, it’s time to go back~” You croon sweetly, placing a chair underneath the fan in order to get to its feathered tennent. The bird is fast asleep by now, beak nestled comfortably under a wing. When you reach up to wrap your hands around her wings, a little black eye flickers open to observe, but she offers no resistance, allowing you lift her up off the creaking paddle safely into your arms.

 

“Hey, now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” You tease the chicken, who clucks quietly and settles into your grasp, her legs dangling underneath her. “Everything’s going to be alright, I won’t let the spooky ghost hurt you…”

 

You hear a pronounced _hmph!_ From somewhere behind you, and smile, smoothing the sleepy bird’s feathers as you step down from the chair.

 

Nevertheless, Ghost opens the door for you on your way out to the coop, and out into the chilly autumn morning. There’s trees in his backyard-- something you hadn’t noticed the night you arrived-- three large, lovely oaks lining the property on the inside of the fence.

 

You deposit the chicken in her dwelling and take in the sight of the yard, eyes drifting upward to the top branches where their leaves are already dyed a gorgeous shade of orange; sunlight washing over the Eastward foliage to plate them in early morning golds. Only a small scattering rattles along the grassy lawn beneath it, which you’re personally surprised to find has been mown and raked recently, despite a complete absence of decoration or a garden.

 

You frown at the waste of open space.

 

Soil like this is hard to come by in the City; there are people out there who would die to fill this plot with a tomato plant or two-- including you. Without even realizing it at first, you begin to map out a garden plan in your mind, scrutinizing every corner of the back yard while visions of sugar beets dance in your head.

 

Being a Hunter makes you an outdoorsman by disposition-- comfortable in strange and hostile environments-- but an observer by circumstance.

 

You don’t know a single Hunter alive who isn’t interested in the nature of existence in _some_ regard, after spending so much time in and around the natural world. It’s not uncommon for one of your kind to come home with a sapling in a burlap bag, with promises of planting it on a street corner; or with some creature’s motherless offspring, in hopes of providing it a better home. You close your eyes a moment and focus in on the breezes whisking through the trees; letting a memory float to the front of your mind.

 

_The woman was old, the crow’s feet masking her eyes extended far beyond her tightly drawn eyelids; age stretching them beyond their bounds. When she smiled at you, the effort it took was minimal, but every line shifted on her face to make way. “You remind me of my first-born. You have a zest for life, my dear, and not just your own.” Her voice bobbed between tones as she spoke, never quite finding the right pitch. She shuffled towards her sink, each movement of a foot parallel to the ground, and reached out to grip some sort of container from its seat under the windowsill. For a moment, you were worried she might drop it, eyes trained apprehensively on the boney spiderwebs that made up her hands._

 

_She made her way back towards you, and held out a terracotta pot brimming with soil, placid smile still parting the curtains of her face. You took it, uncertain, guarding it with both hands as hers ebbed away back into her shawl. “Because of you, I am safe, and my son is safe. Because he is safe, so too are his sons and daughters, and their sons and daughters, and all afterwards.” You met her eyes and found a warmth in them, a hearth, strong and nurturing even in her old age, the only aspect of her physicality yet to age and wither._

 

_“We mortal things, we are so fickle, oh yes we are. But we find ways to live on, we do. Our children, they are our future. When one violet wilts, five others grow in its place, you understand, yes? Have you ever seen a field of violets my dear?” You nodded politely, and she laughed, a tumbling “Ohohoho” that left her mouth as softly as windchimes. “My ancestors used to care for these flowers, I know this, I do. They lived together, raised families alongside each other. Generations and generations and generations of us. Even before we ever knew of worlds outside ours.”_

 

_You looked down at the plain pot, imagining the life that lay in wait beneath its peaty surface, for the right time, and the right place to finally emerge. “A question for you, my dear. How will you live on?” The prompt came so suddenly amongst the elderly woman’s stories that you stood there in silence, mouth drying as you tried to come up with an answer, when you realized, you were holding the answer in your hands. The lady chuckled again behind her thin, bowed smile, and patted the highest point on your head she could reach; which was your neck. It was almost comical. As you held the african violet close to your chest, in that moment you felt both immortal, and alive._

 

With a dreamy sigh, you remove yourself from the daydream and tear your eyes away from the turf to return to the door, rubbing your arms to dispel the cold. With the winter months approaching and only three months under probation, your dream of a garden is little more than that.

  
There’s still much for you to explore around Cayde’s house, and still much to fix and improve…  with luck on your side tonight, hopefully, he’ll be conscious enough to discuss the exciting topic of grocery shopping. You wave goodbye to your feathered friend, and carefully shut the patio door, setting out to find a suitable pair of tweezers to pluck your _other_ feathered friend with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the input on the last chapter! The pronouns when spoken out of perspective will continue to be they/them, and in perspective, you/your.
> 
> On another note, since this is a work based out of reader perspective, I'm aware that I won't reach _every_ reader with the character I'm writing here. So I encourage you to copy down chapters, interchange pronouns, names, and tweak scenarios to match how you think you would act in them (wherever you think you would act differently). _All I ask is that you do not post the edited version, afterwards._ Your copy is for your eyes only!
> 
> If you are thinking of writing or drawing a piece inspired by this one-- with or without all of the aforementioned personal details-- by all means, do so! I would absolutely love to see it, and link it here, too. That's all for now, though. This chapter was a little slow, the next one will be a bit more exciting.
> 
> Peace and blessings!


	10. Subtle Calamity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cayde's home, and he's awake! He even brought back take out, and it's... more ramen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **NOTICE** : Those of you who aren't so hot on descriptions of vomiting, there's a paragraph about halfway through that you might want to skip: stop at where it says "ogle" and continue where it says “Oh my god! _Cayde!"_ It's not quite graphic and really short, so I wouldn't worry about it if you don't have a profound fear of it.

It would appear that you’re in luck-- Cayde-6 comes home exceedingly conscious tonight.

 

In fact, his entrance nearly knocks the front door off its hinges from the sheer force it’s opened with-- or rather, _kicked_ open with-- and the voice following it up is nearly as explosive. **_“Who wants dinnerrrrrrrr!”_ **

 

You peer around the corner beyond the bathroom door, sporting a jar of rancid mayonnaise in one of your hands and a goopy spoon in the other, both held timidly at an arm’s length. There, you take in the sight of Cayde strutting across the foyer with a sizeable plastic bag clenched in each of his fists. The portion of his cloak wrapped around his neck is drawn up around his mouth to ward away the penetrating chill of nighttime in late autumn, above which you can _just_ make out the presence of two vibrant blue eyes.

 

“Welcome home!” You cheer back, studying the pair of bags as he carefully deposits them over the sofa’s back onto its cushions; the fingers on each of his hands spreading outward to emulate a delicate touch. The containers held within bulge at the seams as they settle, which could only mean…

 

“Cayde! Did you get us _takeout?_ ” You exalt, stepping fully out into the hallway to see.

 

“Sure did, sunshine! Two delicious, piping hot bowls of the Wednesday special from the best ramen spot in town, courtesy of… yours truly.” Cayde does a showman’s bow; twirling a wrist by his side to hold it palm up as he bends to face the floor. When he catches your gaze, there’s a pleased look shining through his irises.

 

Your eyes widen, not quite sure of what you did to earn this sort of treatment from him. After all, you’re here serving time under house arrest: an experience which you had fully expected to be dreary and uneventful. And now here he is-- the man who had caught and sentenced you-- treating you to _gourmet ramen_  on just your second day under his _own roof_.

 

Quickly, your eyes narrow. “Alright… what’s the catch?”

 

He meets your scrutiny with a quizzical look, unfolding to his full height once more to pull the scarf away from his mouth and speak more clearly. “Catch? I need to have a catch to buy my cool new roomie some local artisanal perfection? News to me.”

 

Your gaze sharpens further, and you cross your arms over your chest… while careful not to disintegrate an elbow inside of the jar (or spoon) of deadly topping. “I’m a _criminal_. And you’re--”

 

“-- bringing home dinner from the Tower on hump day. Look, it was half-off for a family sized order tonight, _but,_ if you're  _sure_ you don’t want any--”

 

“Forget it! I didn’t mean it! Did I say that? I don’t remember saying that.” You interrupt frantically, and duck back into the hallway to return to the toilet to dispose of the rest of the toxic material, ending the conversation before it can go any further. You’re not about to pass up a freshly cooked meal for the sake of your suspicion, not after what you’ve been eating the past two days. Hell no. “I’ll be out in a second!”

 

Distantly, your host barks out a few laughs. “No need, Guardian! I’m gonna go freshen up while you two get spooning in there. Don’t stop on account of me!” He announces from halfway up the stairwell, and you groan at the dumb joke. “Be back in a jiffy!”

 

“Okay!”

 

You finish scooping liquidy dollops of expired yellow paste into the bowl, and send it off with a decisive flush. You could have thrown out the whole jar, but this thing was recyclable, dammit! You can endure a little soupy egg whip to make a little bit of plastic useable again.

 

The sound of water pulsing through the walls to the upstairs bathroom tells you that Cayde’s taken to the shower, so you advance on the living room to investigate tonight’s surprise bounty. A sumptuous scent meets your nostrils the moment your peel open the first paper sack; boasting a prevailing saltiness of broth mingling with boiled vegetables and the subtle fire of spices. You sigh in relief.

 

_Finally, some good goddamn food._

 

You seize the bags and tow them out into the kitchen to unpack them on a proper dinner table, generously cleared of its unrelated contents by yourself earlier today. It was no small feat, either; you still have no idea how Cayde managed to amass such a quantity of ridiculous hats and masks. They were better off on the top shelf of the coat closet anyhow… they looked like they hadn’t been used, frankly, at all.

 

You spread out the tubs of ramen after deciding that they’d be best eaten straight from their containers (considering the continued lack of proper dishware in the cupboard), and distribute egg rolls, chopsticks, and napkins. By the time you sit down, Cayde is out of the shower and padding back down the stairs. He steps into the kitchen amidst a luxurious stretch, and as a consequence of his height... bangs his knuckles on the doorframe as he passes it. A hushed “ouch!”  escapes under his breath.

 

Tonight, he’s wearing the same sweats as two nights previous, and below it another form-fitting sleeveless shirt. A picture of an tank stretches over it, with the words “TANK TOP” emblazoned above, and the joke is cute enough to put smile on your face. Unfortunately, a jacket is obscuring the tone in his arms and shoulders, which is almost disappointing, until your eyes catch the glimmer of residue shower water glistening above the low cut of the shirt. A drop breaks free of his collarbone and courses down his chest into the folds of his tank as you watch, leaving behind a trail so reflective you’re sure you could see yourself in it, if you just… _got closer…_

 

_Damn, clean exos are shiny._

 

“You’ve been busy.” Cayde states, with a low whistle aimed around the kitchen. “What’d you do, turn this place upside-down and shake it out the window? I’m impressed.”

 

You beam up at him, proud of your efforts... and determined not to get caught staring again. “Nearly! Definitely took some elbow grease.” You describe, admiring your work with him. “You have a, uh…”

 

_Shit, how do I say this without sounding like an asshole?_

 

“Bachelor’s nest? You wouldn’t be the first to say that. Agh, don’t act so surprised, I could see it on your face.” Cayde dismisses when you frown at him. “It’s a big place and the more time goes by, the less I can take care of it. If the neighbor’s kid didn’t have the balls to come knock on my window and offer to mow every now and again, the backyard would be well on its way to a forest.”

 

“Why?” The words leave your mouth, even though you’re already pretty certain of the answer.

 

“Well…” He begins, pulling out his seat to join you at the table. “I’m not really the type you put in a house, y’know?”

 

You can’t help but nod at that. Of all the Vanguard, Cayde has to be the least happy about being stuffed up in the Tower all day long-- everyone and their dog knows that-- but as a Hunter, you empathize with his plight on a more personal level. Hunting is about discovering the unknown, seeking adventure and danger wherever it is to be found in the universe. People like you and Cayde… you’re meant to be out stalking through the untamed wilds beyond every horizon; adding landmarks to your maps and trophies to your collections while putting things in your mouths that you really… shouldn’t.

 

Even you know that any more space in the apartment you rent would just end up gathering dust while you’re away.

 

“Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s dig in! Itadakimasu.” The exo toasts, then rubs his hands together hungrily and goes for his chopsticks. You follow his lead and nab your own pair to plunge into the steaming noodles, excited to get the first quality food you’ve encountered in days inside of you.

 

The first slurp is delightful. The broth steams its way down your throat and into your very soul, and you can’t help but sigh as the noodles following it melt in your mouth, taking all the tension out of your body that you didn’t even know was there, before. They’re spicy and oily at first… then bombard you with more flavors than your sodium-saturated palette can handle, and you’re savoring every god given moment of it. “Cayde! This is deli--”

 

You shouldn’t have looked up.

 

The sight that meets your eyes is inhuman, to say the least. Where Cayde’s mouth meets the stream of noodles between his chopsticks, some hideous transmogrification takes place, mutating his face into some sort of ungodly creature of the deep. His jaws are stretched wide open-- which he appears to be using to his advantage, as he inhales the soup-- and pulls its contents into the back of his throat like a wet conveyor belt. Except… not all of it gets that far. Plenty of ramen refuse catches on the sides of his mouth and dams up the various seams surrounding them; hanging out over his cheeks, dribbling juice down his chin, and spattering the table top in a spicy rainbow spray. It’s already gross as hell, but then the overhead lights cast over the droplets and illuminate it like blood on a crime scene.

 

Your chopsticks clatter back to the table as you continue to stare at the feasting, stricken beyond words.

 

Cayde looks up, notices the expression on your face, then does the only thing that could make his appearance any more freakish:

 

He laughs.

 

A geyser of broth, resembling an _explosion,_ erupts from his facial cavity and scatters all the way across the table and onto your front. You gasp in surprise, and instinctively scooch backward away from the carnage; several new, colorful splotches soaking through to your skin while you ogle.

 

Cayde is having a worse time of it. A gloved hand smacks the dinner table, and watery coughs accompany a dislodged throatful of ramen, their path down his gullet interrupted and now backing up the whole assembly line as penance. He leans over his bowl to try to give them a place to land while he spits and sputters up pieces, and you turn your face away, the sight is too much to bear. You shield your poor, poor eyes with your arms, and wince.

 

“Oh my _god! Cayde!"_

 

“I-- snorf-- hck hACK-- c-c--” He smacks the table two more times with his hand, then uses it to push away from its edge so he can keel over into his lap, head below the table. You can hear choked, insane giggles emanating from beneath.

 

“You! Snrk-- HAck hk-- by surprise!”

 

“I took _you_ by surprise? _I? Took_ **_you?_** ” Incredulous, you raise a hand to splay over your chest. “You’re the one who came in here and split their whole head in two--”

 

His laughter is approaching hysteria.

 

“--Then turned his dinner into a beef teriyaki _supersoaker--”_

 

Cayde is approaching the point where he can’t breathe-- not from his dinner but from his own _laughter--_ and you’re beginning to notice the wide grin stretched over your own face, threatening to break into chuckles. “That has to be the grossest thing I have _ever_ seen! Hey, I hear the Hive are looking to hire…”

 

“You need-- hrk-- you need to stop, before I send the rest of this back up…” He points. “At _you._ ”

 

“What, you mean the ramen you _didn’t_ miss?” You gesture at your stained top. His laugh comes through a little clearer now, hoarsely, in dry chortles. “Oh, I’m going to need to clean your face again, aren’t I?” Snickering, you bring both hands to cover your cheeks in mock-apprehension, though the thought of cleanup isn’t enough to soil your mood, not yet.

 

At your expression, Cayde lifts his head to peer at you with brightened eyes, a gentle smile, though horribly stained, settling over his face. He’s staring up at you very intently now, and though you’re compelled to address it… through all the soggy scraps and leakage clogging up his face, that genuine, soulful smile has taken the words from your lips. The quiet persists for a few seconds, maybe ten, maybe twenty, time seems nonexistent.

 

Then, Ghost makes his presence known, floating through the doorway with a sheepish look on his... eye. “Hey, Guardians, is-- uh… wow. This is a disaster.” He balks, eyeball whizzing about in its shell as it takes in the scene before him. “I’ll go get a towel. Traveler above…” He mumbles as her turns to leave, obviously shellshocked. Poor guy.

 

_Now even our one good dish towel will need a wash._

 

You muse, finally sobering up to reality, when the thought hits you. “Ah! Cayde! Ghost and I have something we’d like to discuss with you, while you’re still awake.”

 

He sits up straight, as if snapped out of a daydream. “Oh! Oh, yeah yeah yeah, shoot.”

 

“Well, we want you to pick some things up from the supermarket.” You begin, slamming your mental stick shift into business gear. “I can pay for the items, I just need someone to go out and get them. There’s, uhm… to put it bluntly… a little less here than I’d hoped.”

 

“Hmm.” Cayde emotes, leaning back in his chair and snagging a napkin to tenderly dab at his face with, while trying not to get pieces caught in the cracks. “Alright then, let’s see the list.”

 

You lean around the table and call for Ghost, who returns in a matter of seconds with a towel slung over his... head? Top. He promptly projects a checklist of no less than one hundred and fifteen different items in front of your boss, the amount of data thrown at his face nearly knocking the Vanguard out of his chair. “Woah there, are you tryna set up a meth lab in my basement or something? This is--”

 

“Mostly food, Cayde.” You reprimand humoredly. “All you have in your cabinets here is instant ramen, which may fly for an exo, but I have organs to maintain. I need other nutrients.” You reason. “And… I’m not half bad of a cook, either. I can make meals for the two of us, you kn--”

 

“Done.” Cayde interrupts, flicking the list away. You blink a couple times, surprised.

 

_Well, that was easy._

 

“Toss that to Sundance's way when you see her, you and I can go this weekend, bright and early. And then, you can make us breakfast!” The Hunter chimes cheerfully.

 

 _He’s getting a little too excited over this…_ You ruminate, then pause for a moment.

 

_Wait._

 

“You and _I?!”_ You exuberate, eyes wide.

 

“Of course, _‘You and I’_ are you kidding? I don’t know half of what these things are, and I need something to do, anyways.” Your roommate replies.

 

“But--”

 

“Your house arrest?”

 

You nod.

 

“You’ll be with your probation officer.” He points to himself. “S’long as your supervised, there’s no rules being broken, no harm, no foul, some fowl, if we decide to bring Colonel.” You make a face. He stands up, stretching once again before he takes the remaining half-swallowed ramen and shoves it in the fridge, then sidesteps back to the table to grab an eggroll-to-go.

 

“Oh-- and you might want to get that shirt cleaned, or it’ll end up smelling like…”

 

“Gross, ramen noodle morning breath?” You finish, with a hint of an accusation.

 

“Something like that. Night!” The egg roll goes in his mouth whole, and you grimace, likening it to a snake swallowing an egg. “Good night. And Cayde?” He stops midway through the door frame to turn and regard you. “Yeah?”

 

“Clean your face, before Sundance blows a circuit laughing at you.”

 

He grumbles out an agreement, probably not looking forward to prying ribbons of limp bok choy from his maw. Ghost, helpful as always, tips his payload onto the larger robots shoulder, murmuring a word of encouragement before sending him off. You wait until you hear his footsteps ascending the staircase before shucking your tee and moving to the sink to give it a proper scrub, mulling over what you know about exos. Who knew that they were such capable contortionists… facially? Certainly not you; and while you can get used to a lot of things, but that particular trait of his is going to take you some time.

 

The shirt gets thrown in the dryer, and you’re off to bed, cycling through a mental list of everything you plan on doing tomorrow and the day after to take up the time between now, and your exciting trip to the grocery store this Saturday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The premise of this chapter was based off of a[headcanon](http://aurelious-auria.tumblr.com/post/171762272663/we-know-that-caydes-favorite-food-is-ramen-but-i) of mine!
> 
> Thank you all for your patience! Finals started up, then the semester ended, then Christmas was on its way, then New Years... it's been a landslide. I really needed some quality time to myself after all of that, and I'm only now just starting to sleep, eat and function normally again. In the next chapter (already half done), you'll be meeting a new character! So I'll see you again soon... and stay frosty out there. Wink.


	11. Riskrunner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit from another Guardian makes your day a little more interesting... for better of for worse.

You spend the largest part of Thursday further familiarizing yourself with Cayde’s space, or to be more accurate… Cayde’s _unused_ space. Throughout your in-depth, self-guided tour you discover a suspicious lack of decoration and personal effects, in not just the foyer-- as you’d observed on your first night here-- but in all other areas of his home as well. The kitchen counters, the coffee table, the windowsills, the sofas, etc, etc, all of it is just… _barren_.

 

It’s pretty obvious to you by now that Cayde’s house has been cleaned recently; and not just cleaned, but desperately emptied of all its contents… which you secretly suspect might be the result of your imminent arrival three nights earlier. While taking out the trash this morning; you find five more sriracha bottles (among other rotting foods you don’t care to describe), and your theory is all but confirmed. The Vanguard must have been amidst a panicked deep-clean of his kitchen space before meeting his untimely demise at the nozzle of an sixth bottle.

 

The thought alone of your boss scrambling around with a bottle of glass cleaner in one hand and a wad of paper towels in the other, desperately trying to render the grimy front windows transparent again before you knocked on his door, brings a smile to your lips.

 

Now, that begs one important question… where did everything go? You’d like to know. Afterall, there could be something in whatever mess he squirreled away that you can still use, like a push broom, or a vacuum cleaner that doesn’t sputter and die after only three minutes of floor time.

 

Fortunately, you have a good idea of where it might be.

 

You take a good look at the knob on the off-limits room across from the stairwell, twirling between your fingers a plastic credit card from Traveler knows what lost age, which you found buried in the cushions of the landing strip (Your new word for the couch by the front door-- Ghost’s suggestion. Very appropriate.) If there is anywhere on the premises that Cayde might embarrassedly hide a large quantity of items-- household related or no-- it should be in here… your previous tour, however unsatisfactory, had taught you that much.

 

Pinching the card between your thumb and index, you slide it down through the latch, hoping the deadbolt is shallow enough in its frame to slide around.

 

It isn’t.

 

After several more tries you admit defeat, sigh, and step back from the lock. It was worth a try, at least… maybe you can corner Cayde about it when he gets home. You have reason enough, right?

 

A fruitless endeavor, it turns out, as he comes home and conks out on the sofa the moment the door shuts behind him. You’re a little disappointed, but not deterred; and store the thought in the back of your brain for another time while you lug the Gunslinger’s slumbering form back up the stairs to his proper bedside. This time Sundance has no complaints; and even helps open the door for you as you approach. You wish each other a goodnight and turn in for the evening.

 

\---

 

The last day of the working week is spent learning the basics of household plumbing, at Ghost’s suggestion. After conducting a deep scan of its pipes, he discovered that after years and years of neglect, the resulting buildup of minerals, sediment, and other yucky goop has placed an immense pressure on the Vanguard’s home’s septic system… yet another aspect of housekeeping that your host hasn’t quite grasped.

 

It’s disgusting, slimy, smelly work; but Ghost stays by your side throughout all of it, offering instructions and suggestions and a very helpful flashlight. By the afternoon, you manage to clear three drains; and while it’s only a fraction of the task completed, you feel proud of the new skill you’ve acquired. The two of you share a high five (or eye-five, in his case), and break for lunch.

 

As you suck down the rest of your leftovers, it’s hard to keep from thinking about your shopping trip tomorrow. It’s only been about a week; and yet, the thought of getting out of the house and walking among the living has you positively giddy. As you daydream, thoughts about wandering around the lively supermarket turn into thoughts about what you plan on doing with your new supplies, which turn into thoughts about whether or not _Cayde_ would actually make use of some of those supplies, then become questions about exos in general, and finally an information crisis.

 

_What if I buy him something he can’t eat? Could I poison him by accident?!_

 

You put down your chopsticks mid-slurp, bite through the noodles, and begin mentally grinding through your options. Option one, you could start a string of internet searches that may _eventually_ give you the answers you’re looking for, or Option _two_ , you could save time by just striking up a conversation with another exo.

 

Research is for the Warlocks, anyhow.

 

As far as candidates go, you could ask Cayde; but you quickly dismiss the idea as it crosses your mind. Considering how much you’ve seen and heard in the past few days, he barely knows how to take care of a _house_ , and much less his _own self_.

 

There’s only one more exo, that you know personally, that you can ask. After taking a deep breath, you pick up your phone, and open up a text channel from your fireteam index.

 

S-1707 :: FIRETEAM INDEX :: **Me**

> Aurora, you have a minute? I have some questions for you

 

S-1709 :: FIRETEAM INDEX :: **Aurora-010**

> YOU have questions?!

 

S-1710 :: FIRETEAM INDEX :: **Me**

> Yes, it’s about exos.

 

S-1710 :: FIRETEAM INDEX :: **Aurora-010**

> You disappear one day and my ghost tells me that you got ARRESTED

> FOR WEAPONS SMUGGLING

> And you have questions for ME

 

You scrunch up your face, feeling a little guilty. Since arriving here, communications between you and your fellow Guardians have been nonexistent; of course your disappearance would’ve caused a ripple. You hadn’t expected Aurora to be this worried, however… hopefully she isn’t mad at you.

 

S-1711 :: FIRETEAM INDEX :: **Me**

> I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to upset you

> I only just got use of my phone back! I swear!

> Up until just a bit ago, outside contact was prohibited, and I’m STILL not off the hook. All of my calls and texts are being monitored so I don’t get up to anything illegal while I’m under house arrest.

 

S-1712 :: FIRETEAM INDEX :: **Aurora-010**

> You’re under house arrest?

> Then why did you leave your plants with us? Are you not at your apartment?

 

You purse your lips, thinking before you respond. Aurora is a good Hunter, a sharp knife hidden beneath a flashy cloak. And as much as you’d like to tell her the truth, you have some idea of how she might react if she actually knows where you’re staying… so you decide to keep quiet about it.

 

S-1712 :: FIRETEAM INDEX :: **Me**

> Don't worry about it.

> I need to ask you some questions about exos, can you help?

 

S-1712 :: FIRETEAM INDEX :: **Aurora-010**

> So you're somewhere else

> You're staying with an exo??

 

Face, meet palm. You may only be texting, but it’s not difficult to tell when a Hunter’s on a trail; and it seems Aurora’s intent on sniffing out your roommate’s identity, while you were foolish enough to lead her to believe that that you were hiding something interesting from her.

Because you are.

Cayde-6 is her _hero._

 

S-1713 :: FIRETEAM INDEX :: **Me**

> That’s beside the point

> I need to know what exos are capable of eating. I’m planning on cooking some meals and I’m unsure of of what I can/can’t use.

 

S-1714 :: FIRETEAM INDEX :: **Aurora-010**

> There some reason you can’t ask them?

> Why not just… look around their kitchen/fridge?

> Or are you suggesting they don’t keep food around

> What kind of person doesn’t keep at least SOME food in their house

 

You want to bang your head on the countertop, knowing exactly what your teammate is up to. All of the offered suggestions are methodically lain and configured traps; and if you reply too directly to any one of them, you’ll be giving yourself away. You must tread carefully…

 

S-1716 :: FIRETEAM INDEX :: **Me**

> I wouldn’t be asking if I knew

> Just

> Please

 

Minutes pass in silence, during which not a word is typed. Sighing, you stow your phone and move to get on with your day, but only make it halfway out of your chair before your pocket buzzes.

 

S-1718 :: FIRETEAM INDEX :: **Aurora-010**

> It’s Cayde isn’t it

 

_Oh no._

 

S-1718 :: FIRETEAM INDEX :: **Me**

> It’s not Cayde

 

S-1718 :: FIRETEAM INDEX :: **Aurora-010**

> Liar! I know for a fact that you are LYING!!!

> You were DELIBERATELY hiding who they were from me because you KNEW I would lose my shit

 

S-1719 :: FIRETEAM INDEX :: **Me**

> I’m telling you it’s NOT CAYDE

 

S-1719 :: FIRETEAM INDEX :: **Aurora-010**

> So if I texted Cayde RIGHT NOW AND ASKED HIM,

> HE WOULD NOT SAY: “Yes they’re at my place right now”

 

S-1720 :: FIRETEAM INDEX :: **Me**

> Don’t be stupid

> He won’t answer

 

S-1720 :: FIRETEAM INDEX :: **Aurora-010**

> Like he has anything better to do

> You know damn well he’ll take any opportunity dodge his responsibilities

 

She has a point.

 

The battle is lost. You heave a hefty sigh while staring at the messages, preparing yourself for the endless onslaught of periodically issued jealous comments and incessant prying that would follow from today into eternity, flowing from the fountain of boundless admiration that is Aurora-010.

 

S-1721 :: FIRETEAM INDEX :: **Me**

> Okay

> It’s Cayde

 

S-1722 :: FIRETEAM INDEX :: **Aurora-010**

> You know

> I wasn’t expecting you to confess

> So I asked him anyway

 

Your eyes widen as you stand there, empty tub in one hand and phone in the other, and snort.

 

S-1722 :: FIRETEAM INDEX :: **Me**

> LOL

> What did he say

 

S-1722:: FIRETEAM INDEX :: **Aurora-010**

> You’re the best cleaning maid he ever hired

 

A laugh escapes you at the response. _If that isn’t the truth._

 

S-1723 :: FIRETEAM INDEX :: **Me**

> I don't know how he's survived this long

> Can you talk now or should I call you later?

 

S-1724 :: FIRETEAM INDEX :: **Aurora-010**

> Neither

> Change of plans. I'm coming over

> TTYS!

 

_What?!_

 

You look up from your phone in surprise, not expecting anything even _close_ to that answer. But sure enough, less than thirty seconds later the front door of your new abode is opening to permit a guest. A very unexpected, uninvited guest.

 

You skid around the kitchen corner, panic taking control, and immediately your eyes land on the figure of a woman strolling cheerfully over the threshold… a fellow Hunter and exo: Aurora-010.

 

Her exterior is a pale off-white set with sharp pink lights, which seep through her cheek plates and eye lenses in addition to those studding her neck and scalp. Overall, she's fairly undecorated for one of her make; with no other markings or features distinguishing her head outside of the antennae on either side.

 

And you couldn’t be more mortified to see her.

 

“What are you _doing_ here?!” You hiss, pinning her with an urgent stare. “You could get me in so much trouble, right now. And how did you even know where--”

 

“Woah, reign it in there, cowboy.” A familiar voice sounds from the intruder's back, after which the white and red-lined shell of Sundance emerges to mediate. “You're still in the clear, I brought her here. You’re allowed visitors under trusted advisory… and I am impressively trustworthy, as you well know.”

 

She turns to regard her Hunter charge. “And since nothing's really happening at the Tower right now… I don't have to be there. Loophole!”

 

You relax, letting your shoulders slump, and step out into the open. “Well, I suppose I was worrying over nothing, then. I take it she texted you, looking for a ride?” You tease, glancing over towards the other for a reaction, who appears to be sleuthing through Cayde’s foyer for inklings of truth regarding the rumors she has no doubt heard.

 

“Actually, I texted her.”

 

You balk. “What? Wait but why?”

 

Cayde’s ghost rolls her eye. “Well _someone_ has to read everything you write in that phone. And you know… I get invested in a good story.”

 

Of course it was Sundance monitoring your activity, who else would it be? You supposed the more dismissive part of your brain just assumed somebody sitting behind a computer desk in Vanguard Headquarters was scrolling through your texts with a cup of coffee in their hand.

 

This… changes things a little.

 

“Right, thank you for that. This is actually… a way better idea, both of you know way more about exos than I do.” You straighten up a little, pondering new possibilities. “You already know so much about Cayde, and Aurora can help fill in the blanks.”

 

“Actually, about that…” Sundance drawls uneasily, glancing back at the inattentive exo. “You and I… _both…_ have something to gain from this. I…” She seems to want to say more, but another stolen glance at the newcomer tells you it’s not the time or place to get detailed. You spare her the awkwardness of a broken off sentence by switching your attention to Aurora, who is mumbling to herself by the central sofa, clearly puzzled.

 

“That’s the landing strip.” You inform her.

 

Her eyelights flash up at you, the look of confusion in them intensifying, though backlit with keen curiosity. “What?!”

 

With a pang of unease, you realize this brazen little Gunslinger could become a problem if you don't attend to her properly; as sly as she may be, she has a nosy disposition and a horrible -- though unintentional-- knack for spreading rumors while telling fantastically stories of her exploits. In fact, you pretty certain the Hive ritual rumor started after she showed Tess Everis the Ascendant artichoke she found in one of Cayde's lost stashes. Yikes.

 

“How about this: I’ll tell you what that means, and I'll even take you out back to hang with Colonel when we’re done talking. But first, you have to promise me one thing.”

 

“What?”

 

“You didn't see me-- or Ghost-- _anywhere_ near this place. We were never here, and Sundance brought you by to visit Colonel. That’s it.”

 

“But why?” She pleads, the lines below her scalp simulating her eyebrows converging.

 

“Aurora. The last thing I want to do is return to active duty, and find the Tower personnel giving me funny looks because they were convinced my own Vanguard dressed me up in a maid costume and had me dust his blinds all day. I _know_ how you can be.” You eye her sincerely.

 

“Well, has he?” Her eyes brighten by a few settings.

 

_Good Lord, this woman._

 

“No! You’re missing the point. Just, promise me. Please.”

 

“Okay, I promise! You don't have to worry, I’ll keep my mouth shut.” She concedes, looking a tad disheartened as her lights dim again. “I’ll even give you the scoop on the latest Tower gossip while you're stuck here. Keep my antennae to the ground.” She clicks both stems against her head to emphasize.

 

You smile appreciatively at the dedication, and pray that you've done enough to keep her lips from sinking ships. “That sounds like a plan. But right now, I need your help.”  You relay, a harder expression beginning to turn your features. Aurora notices at once. Striding forward, she captures your shoulders between two firm hands, and directs a look of unshakeable pink-hued resolve into your face.

 

“Don’t you worry. Once we sit down, I'm going to teach you everything you need to know about exos. After today, you're going to be an expert. An exo-pert.” She beams at you-- _literally_ \-- the insides of her mouth lighting up.

 

Wince. “Ouch. That was weak.”

 

“Get used to it. Exos love puns.” She assures you with an even brighter grin.

 

\---

 

Five minutes later the three of you are sitting-- or floating-- at the kitchen table, two of you with a plastic cup of instant ramen sandwiched between your palms, while you sit beside a pad of paper and a pen… just in case. Aurora takes a sip from her cup, its searing temperature barely bothering her, and looks you dead in the eye. “So, you want to cook for an exo, hm?”

 

You lean in, eager to at last receive the information you’ve been vying for all day. “Yes. Tell me your secrets.”

 

She leans in as well, feeling playfully conspiratorial, and holds up a single finger. “Alright. Secret number one: Exos… don’t need to eat.” She smiles when your mouth drops open slightly, this simple revelation generating thousands more questions. But before the first can stumble its way past your lips, she saves you the trouble by elaborating.

 

“Seems crazy, right? That _robots_ don’t need to eat?” She laughs sarcastically, and leans back a bit, placing her hands in front of her neatly, as if she were pitching a business idea. “See, it’s part of the design. Initially, we weren’t meant to, because really, what’s the point of nourishing metal? Turns out, that transition was harder to bridge from our former organic shells than anticipated. We may be robots, but we’re still _human minds.”_

 

Aurora taps her skull, which makes a soft clicking noise. You relax a bit, beginning to understand. “You’re cyborgs, I’d be surprised if you weren’t.” you furrow your eyebrows a bit, still hung up on something. “Does that mean… you still get hungry?”

 

“That’s right.”

 

“Even though you don’t need to eat.”

 

“Also right.” She turns the palms up, for no other reason other to grab your attention while she explains. “You seem confused. I take it you haven’t heard of human programming.” It’s not a question. And she’s one hundred percent correct. “Remember when I started talking about transitioning human minds into robot bodies? It’s a messy process. Seems that fleshy brains don’t take too well to being hooked up to non-fleshy shells, and start dissociating, _hard_ . _Rejecting_ their new bodies.”

 

You shut your mouth again. “That sounds bad.”

 

“Very much so. That’s where the human programming comes in, the old 'Braytech Solution’. Our robot bodies normally wouldn’t need food, but because our brains need to eat to feel _human,_ guess what? We get robot stomachs.” She pats her abdomen with a hand. “We have non-essential hardware installed to mimic a lot of other things, too. Like sweating and shivering, or sleeping, and also uh… you know.” She winks at you, and you blink a few times, taken aback.

 

_She couldn’t possibly…?_

 

At once, your face flushes, and you bring your hands to your cheeks, mouth opening. Your metal friend’s brows quirk in amusement. _“No…_ really? You guys have--?”

 

“Oh yes.”

 

“And you can get…?”

 

“Dependant on sexuality, but absolutely!”

 

“But you can’t have…” You almost feel stupid for asking this... but at this point, anything is game. You’ve already had your mind blown twice today, there could be a third on the horizon. You lean in, and whisper, too embarrassed to enunciate. “You can’t have _kids,_ can you?”

 

“Not as far as I know.” The Hunter kicks back in her chair, arms folded easily over her stomach, completely comfortable with the question. “There’s a lot to exoscience that’s been lost since the first Golden Age, but since we’re apparently amidst our second now, who knows what we’ll rediscover.”

 

“That’s too wild to be true.”

 

“You’re right. Probably is.” There’s a pause where she watches you as her information sinks in, and you nod quietly to yourself, the facts turning the gears of your imagination.

 

 _This could mean Cayde is…_ **_active._ ** _But he hasn’t brought anyone home yet, nor does it look like he has, though this place has been cleaned pretty thoroughly…_

 

You look up at Sundance, who catches your eye, and you begin to phrase a question… but stop yourself at the last second, realizing just what words had been about to exit your mouth. That would have been so weird of you, and so, so, embarrass--

 

“He hasn’t slept with anyone since the War, Guardian, if that’s what you were wondering.” The ghost has practically reads your mind, and your embarrassment ratchets upward another few notches. Your face feels so hot, you have to hide it in your hands to cool it down… and much to your furthering misfortune, Aurora starts snickering. “Oh? Does somebody have a little _crush?”_

 

“NO!” Comes your immediate answer, eyes flashing up to glare at her. The exo holds her hands up in surrender-- though she's still grinning wildly-- while you begin frantically defending yourself. “No! That was just-- that was just such a thing to _say_ I didn’t know how to react--”

 

“Because you were too busy imagining it.”

 

“No!” You rebuke, and look to Sundance for a helping hand, but she seems far too amused by this exchange to intervene. You sigh in frustration and face Aurora, indignant. “I’d react like this to _anyone_ saying something like that, stop jumping to conclusions!”

 

“Oh really?” The Hunter tests, dropping forward on her chair to lean into the table on her elbows. “Zavala sits on a _mountain_ of pussy.”

 

You wrinkle your nose a little, put off by the thought. Aurora, unfortunately, catches this. “Hah! There it is!”

 

“That’s different! He’s… _so_ not sexual.”

 

“Ikora is a _monster_ in the sheets.” You avert your eyes to try and seem affected by this, but the damage is already done. Your blush is disappearing, and Aurora is smiling victoriously, a gleeful twinkle in her eyes. “Admit it, you’ve got the hots for bots.”

 

There’s no getting around it, now.

 

_Sigh._

 

“Alright, he’s cute, so what? There are tons of people I think are cute, _hot_ even, that I wouldn’t necessarily _sleep with.”_ You reason, and much to your relief, Aurora settles back down into her seat, downcast at your rebuttal. “So if you’re done acting like a _nosy teenager_ up late at a slumber party, can we get back to the topic at hand?” You half-ask, half-demand; and the Gunslinger settles into the palm of an upturned hand, a sign of resignation.

 

For the better part of the hour, the three of you discuss other various exo-related traits, ranging everywhere from diet (of which-- you’re surprised to find-- lacks a _disturbing_ amount of limits) to habits, and abnormal behavior that helps you make sense of some of your more obscure encounters with Cayde around the house. Your time together ends when Sundance finds she must return to the Tower, and takes your compatriot back home-- and though the talk was brief-- it was very informative, and you feel more than confident in the list you’ve come up with for tomorrow’s excursion.

 

Hours later, Cayde-6 comes home, collapses, and you begin the arduous climb with your metal backpack back up the stairs to his bedside. Sundance remains silent the entire time you lug him up the stairs, right up until she wishes you goodnight at the bedroom door.

 

You go to sleep with a smile on your face, looking forward to tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! I've adjusted the rating, since the language is a little stronger in this update.
> 
> Regarding the new character, I felt this chapter would be the right place to stick my own Guardian persona in for a bit, since it's sort of a tradition of mine to slip her into every Destiny story I write in some form or another. This is the biggest role she's had so far though-- I hope it wasn't off-puting! She'll pop up every now and again for story purposes.
> 
> More [Aurora-010 here!](http://www.aurelious-auria.tumblr.com/tagged/A010)
> 
> Next chapter you're going to the supermarket-- yay!-- I can't believe I've been building up to this for, what is it, 5 chapters now? Jesus.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if you liked it, and/or want to see more! If I don't know, then I don't post, and end up keeping all this tasty stuff to myself. I try to answer every comment I get, but I might miss some! Regardless, my endless love to all of you who have taken time out of your days to read this story, and even more to those who've enjoyed it.
> 
> Find me on tumblr at Aurelious-auria!  
> Keep updated on this fic and posts related to it through [this tag.](http://aurelious-auria.tumblr.com/tagged/NWR-the-fic)  
> I have more reader inserts to share with the community, so keep your eyes peeled for those as well. Peace and Blessings! ✌️


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